


Sandal Ash

by LeAglani



Series: Ashes [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Case Fic, Curses, Dark Magic, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Illustrations, M/M, Mages, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Magical Realism, Possesive Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Top Sherlock, Witches, magical AU!, translasion from russian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:02:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 33,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26674081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeAglani/pseuds/LeAglani
Summary: The second part of the "Ashes" series, in which dark mage Sherlock Holmes and Healer John Watson continue to work and live together, becoming closer to each other.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Ashes [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/343459
Comments: 53
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Сандаловый Пепел](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10912995) by [LeAglani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeAglani/pseuds/LeAglani). 



> This is the second and already fully finished part (and I spent more than a year writing it and several eyers of waiting for a beta) of the three planned. It has 25 chapters and a short bonus.  
> As usual, I recommend that you read a brief description of the universe, perhaps even re-read the first part to refresh your memory of those events. There is also a side story on behalf of Sherlock, which just happened before the beginning of this part.
> 
> Comments are very welcome))) For me, the most difficult thing is to write out the development of relations so that they are not too fast or too slow, so that they are logical and so on, so I always worry about this.
> 
> A lot of thanks (like really a lot!) goes to [ ayzaria08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayzaria08) !! Only with her great help now you can read this part of the story!
> 
> Ohhh!!! And I have a cover for this part - it's in the end of this chapter))

Sandal ash, sandal ash

Flies and does not melt

The world is sweeping away,

pain and joy are reduced to ashes.

We, alive and hot,

Who sings and who cries

Who is black, who is white,

Who is angry and who is bright -

One day everyone is swept away by ashes.

-Irina Bogushevskaya, song “Sandal Ash”

  
  
  


The suburbs of London in the predawn haze seemed to John something unsteady and unreal. A gray fog masked the ground, covered with a carpet of fallen leaves, and he could only wrap himself in a light jacket and regret that he had not dressed warmer and that he had once again forgotten to put a spare sweater in his rucksack.

The magic spilled into the air, spreading in all directions as a viscous stream, giving a feeling of peace and tranquility. He had forgotten what it was like not to be maneuvering constantly, avoiding or passing through the magical Storms, or how out of habit he was to brush off someone else's residual magic while crossing the streets, or catching the echoes of other people's spells. John had already gotten used to the constant hustle and bustle, as if he had never left the London streets for the sake of sun-scorched Afghanistan. So now the sudden silence made him a little nervous, which, however, did not last long.

For such an early and cold morning, the suburban station suddenly became quite busy. Here and there a child's laughter or a shout were heard, immediately replaced by a brief echoing calm. John habitually joined the motley crowd of people, looking for familiar faces and calling children to him.

For two weeks now, all his free time was occupied not only by one particular dark mage and their joint affairs. Despite the license, without a new Balance, he risked a lot, using even the simplest everyday spell, and his case was so unique that he did not know who to turn to for help. Having lived like this for about a month, he was already seriously considering options for evening classes. When Sherlock offered to use the services of one of his acquaintances, John didn’t even think to refuse. And he couldn’t imagine that his consent would eventually result in trips to the suburbs and communication with young mages and witches.

In the days that John could devote to learning, every morning he involuntarily stood at the head of a small procession, and a bunch of children lined up behind him, to slowly walk to the gate of the temple. He, like the other students, had a new school day.

After some time walking, a masonry of stones emerged from the fog as expected. The old cobbled road led down and up the slope, but like so many others, he had a tedious climb up, he lifted his head and peered up the hill. There froze, the blurry silhouette of a building that was already familiar to him. Tiled roofs, overhanging beams decorated with intricate carvings, and small windows – it was just one of a dozen other temples that threw open their doors for believers and seekers of Knowledge.

John gave a friendly wave to the gatekeeper as he passed and hurried to the gate. Waiting for the latecomers, he spent a few more minutes making sure no one was forgot, and closed the heavy doors, cutting off the rest of the world until evening.

Walking confidently through the courtyard, he stepped forward into the dark opening of an old building in the temple. The chamber was semi-dark and had the scent of candles, old wood, dust and incense. Finding his way through the dark by sound and relying more on his senses than sight, John walked the entire first floor, getting used to the local magic. The magic that filled even the air in this place, was just as primordial as it was alien and inhospitable both for young students, who still had little understanding of the very essence of what was happening to them, and for him, who had the experience of past years behind him.

Even at the first visit he was quite surprised by the fact that the temple was not located on the Source, which would have been natural and logical. And surprisingly, the Source was not even anywhere near. But despite this, every stone, every tree on the hill was filled with the strongest primordial magic. He could just sit for hours and watch the intricate swirls and overflows, while a living luminous stream flowed past and through him.

The local magic fascinated him, evoking vague associations with something deeply ancient. And only one logical explanation came to mind - an artifact of divine origin (1). John tried to ask Holmes about this, but he, in his usual manner, only extended his trademark "boring," and they never returned to this topic. Holmes’ indifference brought little consolation, though Sherlock did not show concern, what was good for the dark mage did not mean the same for everyone else.

Barely audible children's voices merged into a monotonous hum, reminiscent of a mournful prayer, and he suppressed the childish urge to shout out something to get rid of this impression, at least for a moment. Today, weak spell threads led him down a hallway to a spacious, dimly lit room in which they were to spend the entire day with one single lunch break.

John perfectly remembered his training in childhood and the first lessons, and the first independent steps in knowing his capabilities. These were bright memories that had nothing to do with the current depressing atmosphere of despondency and fear.

The local mentor did not have any patience or any ability to teach. One got the notion that he was fulfilling an unpleasant duty and didn’t even try to hide his displeasure. The traditional kesa (2) looked a little ridiculous on the tall, thin figure, and its practical brown color gave an unhealthy powdery hue to a strange, though rather attractive face. This fact, combined with an eternally dissatisfied grimace, did not add to the mentor's popularity in the eyes of the children, who, with their age-specific spontaneity, were drawn to the only adult who was close and understandable to them in this strange and undoubtedly frightening place for them. On the one hand, it flattered John, and on the other, it only added to the hassle.

As soon as he took a seat in the farthest and darkest corner, a slight boy immediately sat down by him, the same mysterious acquaintance of Holmes, who had come to meet him at the station and silently lead him to the then, completely unfamiliar temple for the first time. Well, even with this, the dark mage was able to surprise him.

“John,” he was tugged uncertainly by the sleeve.

“Yes, Patrick?”

The boy was noticeably worried, as his brown eyes cautiously, quickly looked around before he decided to lean closer to him.

“The second stage (3) doesn’t work for me at all ...”

“At all?” 

“Yeah.”

Only vaguely John knew what he could do to help his young companion. He could only rely on his childhood experiences. Even now, everything was different for him, and the necessary stages of meditation he practically could not feel - they merged for him into a single moment. It was enough just to reach for the luminous pulsating stream, and he knew for sure that he would not take more than he could use.

John looked around unwittingly, feeling eager, curious glances on him. There were children of all ages, even those who should have already studied in schools, but for whom, due to life circumstances, the only alternative was only temple education, moreover, not always the most successful, of which he became an involuntary witness.

He didn’t even need to close his eyes, so that in his mental map, amidst all the interweaving of spells and pulsations of magic, he could easily see the glowing points of still weakly formed auras. Some shone brighter, some weaker, and there were practically no colored flashes, which should have appeared much later as they grew up and entered adulthood.

“And many have problems with this?”

‘Everyone.”

Which was not surprising, given the peculiarities of the local magic, to which he, too, took time to adapt. In addition, the temples usually did not have special rooms for studying, which were available in schools. As there were no special textbooks and manuals - nothing that would help these children to learn, John wasn't even sure if half of them even passed the First Registration.

“Then we will think of something.”

“Thanks, John.”

Patrick leaned closer, as if he was about to share an important secret. And judging by his next words, for him it was so.

“I know you are only staying here for us.”

“What do you mean?”

"You've received long ago what you came here for. But you're still here, even if Mr. Holmes isn't conducting any investigation.”

John swallowed; he really had nothing to argue. He thought he had been pretending well, but the street kids were always much smarter and more attentive than the simpler other children their age. And if guys like Patrick were part of the Holmes Homeless Army, about which he had only a faint idea until recently, then it was understandable why Sherlock, though sparingly, always praised his little informants. Even in spite of the local ancient and mysterious artifact, he found his Balance amazingly quickly - a few days of meditation and a couple of exercises were enough. And now he no longer risked harming himself or those around him by letting a glowing stream of magic flow through him.

“You are not required to do this.”

“I owe nothing to anyone. Only..." John trailed off. He wanted to say that the only one to whom he really owed something was Holmes, or rather, both Holmes, but he cut himself off without finishing. He admitted this to himself for the first time. The thought was sobering in its simplicity, because now he truly owed a dark mage and a Necromancer. But the fact that he sincerely wanted to help these children had nothing to do with it.

“Our mutual friend has nothing to do with this,” John pointedly raised his eyebrows, trying to defuse the seriousness of the conversation.

Suddenly, a timid whisper ran through the room. Having rushed into the classroom, the mentor first of all looked around everyone with a displeased glance, only lingering on John for a short while.

“Silence!” After a sharp shout everyone immediately calmed down as usual.

“We all have a lot of respect for Mr. Holmes,” the boy told him in a conspiratorial whisper, before they had to return their attention to the mentor, whose expression never changed and was still twisted with displeasure.

(1) Divine artifact - an item created by the mages of Antiquity and possessing a unique and enormous magical power, comparable in its power to the Source. For example, the Orb of Vulnerability is a divine artifact that, when activated, makes it impossible to use magic at all or in part, depending on the strength and skills of a particular mage;

(2) Kesa is the traditional dress of Buddhist monks and Hindu sannyasis. This term is usually referred to brown or saffron-colored clothing; in Sanskrit and Pali there is the word cīvara, which denotes such clothes regardless of color. The details of the kesa, which, according to legend, is a set of items of clothing for the Buddha, may differ slightly depending on the particular school of Buddhism, but there are always three garments in it: antarvasa (underwear, analogue of underwear), uttarasanga (outerwear) and samghati (additional cape-mantle);

(3) Meditation for finding Balance comes down to three traditional stages, passing through which allows to “tune” the body to perceive the flow of magic. As you grow older and due to habit, the reference to the Balance occurs automatically, on a subconscious level. Since Balance is, in fact, the harmony of the human body and magic, and therefore the optimal and best form of interaction between them, this ideal interaction is fixed in the subconscious for life.  
The very simple way to explain the stages of meditation is: 1 stage - relaxation and purification of consciousness, 2 - attunement to the flows of magic, 3 - direct finding or tuning to Balance.  
In the text, the children faced a problem at the second stage due to the peculiarity of the local magic. It turned out to be very difficult for them to perceive.


	2. Chapter 2

The leaflet, hastily shoved into his hands, didn’t arouse any interest in him exactly, until he tried to crumple it up to throw it away into the nearest trash can. Black paper with a simple text stubbornly continued to straighten no matter how much he squeezed it. The only eye-catching thing about it was a bright blot- a strange yellow mark that seemed vaguely familiar to him.

John had repeatedly encountered advertising tricks of this type, but for the first time in his memory, he did not want to throw out an ordinary black piece of paper without having read what exactly he was offered this time.

He skimmed through it several times, regular religious nonsense, designed for the desperate and disadvantaged, promising salvation and a better life. No new revelations, no new promises - just another cult, one of many that appeared overnight and then disappeared without a trace, making room for more new ideals and new followers.

John threw off his momentary stupor and hastily slipped the leaflet into his jacket pocket, changing his mind about throwing it away. Joining the crowd of people rushing about their business, he felt lost for a moment. Gray skies overhead, gray houses, gray faces with a stamp of hopelessness - it was not surprising that there were, most of all, different cults and sects in such disadvantaged areas, people have always looked for and found ways to hide from reality.

Before meeting with the new Inspector appointed for him by the Ministry, he still had to look at the former curator for the results of the latest tests and the final conclusion. The last formality, after which, he hoped to remember his life before Holmes as little as possible, no matter how cynical and trite it may sound. An involuntary return to familiar dull streets brought back not only uninvited memories. Breathing in the damp air, filled with the noise of city streets and strange cries, he listened with surprise to the words reaching him from all directions.

_ Do you believe in Gods? _

_ Why are we here? _

_ The gods left us long ago. _

_ Where are we going? _

_ His appearance is destined. _

He was unceremoniously grabbed by the arm, knocking him off step. The tenacious long fingers belonged to a strange type in shabby clothes and with the dull gaze of a man who had long abused opium and elixirs. His faintly luminous aura was stained with black, ugly splotches like cadaveric spots, the first thing that came to his mind. John looked at this casual passer-by in surprise, he barely managed to suppress the urge to shrug his shoulders in disgust when he whispered hotly in his face, as if sharing a revelation.

“The gods have left us. All but one.”

Deciding not to engage in controversy, John tried to regain his own hand, but it was not so easy to free the sleeve so cleverly captured. Suddenly, right before his eyes, familiar black leaflets shook until they scattered around them like mourning fans.

“He will come! Messiah is coming! And will show us the way.”

John knew from experience that the possessed, regardless of the nature of the possession, could be effectively and quickly calmed down with a simple aversion spell. For as long as he could remember, this was an effective, albeit short-lived, measure. To his surprise, he did not receive the expected reaction; however, the "withdrawal" still had an effect. The strange guy rolled his eyes and shook, loosening his grip.

“Light! Light! This light!”

People around them had already begun to pay attention, and John had no choice but to forcefully break free and hasten to hide behind the nearest turn, hoping that nobody would pursue him. He quickly looked around, now he had to make a detour to get to the former curator, but that was better than facing an unexpected obstacle again.

Walking past the dirty shop windows and shabby walls, he now began to notice simple signs everywhere; they embellished the gray walls of the houses and fences with their cheerful yellow color. On these streets, he saw himself as he once was, abandoned and lost, looking for something without the ability to find. Unlike many, he was lucky to escape from those monotonous days, and now around him, branching and swirling, a luminous stream was cascading; now he could not only clearly see it, but also touch it. John bathed in him, as if, for the first time, enjoying his invisible touch on his face and hands not hidden by layers of clothing.

He was not tempted by the prospect of being late for a meeting with his temporary, and in the long term, permanent Inspector. John hoped to the last that it would be Lestrade. What was his surprise when he found out that not only the Inspector had only one ward in the person of the dark mage Sherlock Holmes, but that he also served as an agent in the most prestigious operational unit of the MSD (1), in the DMC (2). He could hardly imagine how the Inspector's duties were imposed on the already active operative. But he, John Watson, certainly did not get the same special attention. Of course, he did not have an older brother who not only had influence and power, but who was clearly a strong practitioner. His closest relatives were only a sister who abused life-giving drinks (3), and who, even in her best years, was a rather mediocre witch. There was no question of any influence or connections.

In response to his complaints about the Inspector, Holmes only vaguely shook his head and uttered the cryptic: "It doesn't matter." After which the conversation was settled, and John returned to reviewing the numerous documents that he had already collected, checking them against the necessary list.

The path to a fulfilling life in the magical society for him, was littered with an astonishing number of forms and documents. And this was not counting the letters that came almost every day from various departments and subdepartments, even the patronage of Mycroft Holmes did not help. John was almost lost in all of the plethora of certificates and papers the long-awaited letter and invitation to an interview with his potential Inspector required.

Now, having taken the last needed papers from the former curator and having found the necessary house in the complex interweaving of streets, John introduced himself with slight anticipation to a cute girl at the reception and sat down in a small cozy room while he waited to be escorted to the desired office.

Inspector Dimmock came across as a rather capable mage who, despite his obvious youth, inspired confidence. A pleasant face and pleasant manners involuntarily inclined, and John immediately liked his aura, light beige with green splashes.

A bright office with a large window, shelves with neatly arranged books, a small work desk and two chairs for visitors - John looked around with an attentive, inquisitive gaze before looking at this place from a different angle. The interwoven runes inscribed on the walls and the standard spells were no different from many of the same, and approved by the Ministry for small practices outside its departments. The most interesting, perhaps, was the ornate drawing at the threshold, which clearly could not be made by a mediocre mage.

Now he never missed the opportunity to see more, although he still had too little practice to draw the right conclusions. But even what he had learned from Holmes, told him that his would-be Inspector was a neat, cautious and rather vain mage with average abilities and great ambitions.

After a short greeting and an invitation to sit in a rather comfortable chair, an awkward pause hung between them.

“Mr. Watson,” the young Inspector nervously leafed through his personal file, now and then hesitantly straightening his tie. For some reason, he decided not to use his Class in circulation, which immediately alerted John a little. “Your partner is the dark mage Sherlock Holmes, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You indicated Baker Street as your place of residence. So you both work and live together, right?”

“Yes. Will this be a problem?” John sincerely did not yet understand what all these questions were about.

“Not that it is a problem, but I will be frank with you, Holmes is simply unbearable.”

Ah, this. It meant that the young Inspector either heard about him, or he, himself encountered Sherlock. And John has already heard similar words in different variations more than once. John could admit, at least to himself that it was naive on his part to hope for something else, based only on the beautiful weaving of runes.

“I would not want to even be his temporary or substitute Inspector and endure the meticulous digging into my brains, just as I would not want to have anything to do with him. But since you are his partner, we will all have to find a compromise. Do you see where I am leading?”

“It seems so,” looking in bewilderment at the nervous young mage sitting in front of him, John tried to understand how he wanted to move up the ladder, when he was so afraid to be a little more flexible, to think beyond the framework set by public opinion and to see further stereotypes imposed by the same society. 

Of course, Sherlock Holmes frightened, how he frightened just as everything unknown frightened or how someone who could see into your soul and find out absolutely everything about you, even the most intimate of thoughts, frightened. He himself, at the first meeting, was very close to his own cowardly escape. John assumed that this was the impression Sherlock made on others. And apparently that was why they tried not to get involved with him - and it was not only his tactlessness and ignorance of the usual social norms, or the prejudice existing in the magical society against Dark mages. It was all right.

It was just that Holmes, like no one else, took absolutely all of the attention himself, regardless of whether you wanted it or not. He simply filled the entire surrounding space and attracted the eyes. Dissecting and arranging the smallest, even the most insignificant details of other people's lives and actions, pointing out other people's mistakes, and accompanying all this with unflattering remarks and statements. Holmes never really cared about the opinions of others. A lively, inquiring mind, undeniable talent, and unwillingness to adapt to any norms of behavior made him practically unbearable in communication. Which, among other things, did not prevent John from not only getting along with him, but even enjoying their strange partnership.

The door flew open with a bang, admitting a familiar figure in a dark coat. An unexpected and rather spectacular appearance launched a pulsating wave along the runes; the magic around it trembled, pulling the spells that held it back, and froze uneasily. Something like this John subconsciously waited for all this time, so he was not even surprised.

“Have you already agreed on something? Ah, I see that not yet. John, hurry up, we have a new case.”

(1) Abbreviation for Magic Security Department;

(2) Colloquial acronym for the Department for the Fight Against Magical Crimes and Illegal Trafficking of Magical Artifacts; 

(3) Life-giving drink - a weak concentration of the elixir of life; one of the ingredients for many potions, as well as for all kinds of alcohol. It can be consumed in its pure form, and it is addictive like any other elixir.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears))
> 
> I think I won't have strick shedule for posting - may be as soon as we with [ ayzaria08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayzaria08) finish editing chapters, I will post them, may be not. But it would be about 2 chapter per week.  
> I already translated all 25 chapters plus bonus, so everything else is on dear [ ayzaria08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayzaria08) )))) Again a lot of thank goes to her for doing great job with editing my translation, and let me tell you what a task it is in itself!

John watched London from the cab window. The city was dazzling with its assorted houses, fencing and signs. In the interweave of streets, there were sometimes green islets of alleys, and occasionally one could see gardens laid out right behind the hedges, and nothing was more pleasing to the eye than the glimpse of greenery amongst the gray concrete or red brickwork.

Streets sweeping by imperceptibly became wider and livelier, and the usual mixture of architectural styles was replaced by tall office buildings, whose glass sides reflected the fickle sky, changing the mood of entire neighborhoods depending on the weather. Everything here had a downside. Just as rare sun rays, falling into a mirror trap, could paint the entire avenue with bright flashes, so too, the heavy dark clouds reflected in numerous glasses, amplified their oppressive presence.

John was not sure if he had ever visited this part of London on purpose and not in passing, he hadn't had reason to. Currently, he couldn't afford the services offered by the local mages and witches here or when he was younger. Now that he had incentive to, he couldn't say that he was glad of the prospect to walk the strict, boring streets of such a corporate London. 

The people hurrying about their business aroused in him a slight irritation mixed with curiosity. He hadn’t seen such a clustering of various auras, residual spells and echoes for a long time. Two weeks of meditation in the peace and quiet of the Temple and he was already feeling uncomfortable in this chaotic clashing. This was a little upsetting and alarming, he didn’t want to lose his vigor from living in noisy London.

John turned away from the window, deciding to take a break from the outside fuss. He hadn't noticed when Holmes had gotten so close that their shoulders were now touching each time the cab turned or slowed down. But now he had the opportunity to examine at close range, long dark eyelashes, high cheekbones and a sensual mouth, half hidden by a dark blue scarf, in which Holmes had buried himself, bowing his head to the phone. Long fingers fluttered across the smooth display, and John, once again, with slight envy, marveled at someone else's ability to be so clever with the thin soulless plastic. His phone, donated by his sister, had given him much inconvenience, and he had longing thoughts of going back to a simple button model.

Noticing his attention, Sherlock was distracted from the photos flickering on the screen only for a moment, but the intercepted gaze was enough for John to ask the question that had tormented him for a while.

“What about the new case?”

“... I have no doubt that it is something very boring, but I could not refuse,” Holmes sighed, obviously dissatisfied with the work ahead of them.

John, on the whole, was not against Sherlock's often tactless interferences in his affairs. Moreover, their concluded contract tied them together, binding them to new obligations and restrictions in their shared lives. The dark mage, like no one else, knew how to dilute the gray, boring everyday life. Though he certainly wouldn’t have had any objections to ending his conversation with Dimmock with some kind of agreement instead of a curt, hasty goodbye. As a result, Holmes' appearance marked not only a new case, but also possible problems for John with his new Inspector in the foreseeable future. Nevertheless, he strongly suspected they were in any case, waiting for a lack of understanding to happen. And it wasn't only about Sherlock Holmes, albeit for the most part, the reason really was him. For himself, John decided to go with the flow and see where it will take him. 

“Why couldn't you refuse?”

“Today my former classmate contacted me and asked for help.”

The dark mage did not like to go into details too boring for him and so necessary for everyone else, until he could exactly show off a coherent chain of his own deductions and conclusions. As John had already understood, in front of a grateful audience, usually in his face, Holmes could speak without interruption for hours. Now he had to be content with a scant explanation, which only fueled his curiosity.

Of course John wondered what this former classmate of Holmes was like, a man who knew Sherlock as a young, and no doubt promising mage. John could definitely not refuse to find out if Sherlock had been fond of dark magic even then, whether he was just as cold and detached or just as closed and lonely.

“Sherlock, where...”

“We are in place.”

As soon as they exited the cab that had stopped at the sidewalk, the answer itself appeared before him in the form of another modern building with a bright spacious foyer and serious security at the entrance. Only a blind man would not have noticed the huge inscription of cast gold letters.

_ Artifact Exchange _

John looked around in shock. He, following stereotype, imagined something gloomy and quiet with a marble staircase, labyrinths of deep dark corridors with oak doors and name plates, dimly glowing crystal lamps, and dark carpets that drowned out the footsteps of rare visitors. He imagined an intricate interweaving of runes and wards, ancient Guardians and the most complex of barriers.

In fact, the headquarters of one of the most influential institutions after the Ministry of Magic, impressed with its modern, laconic interior. There was still a marble staircase, but instead of carved columns, it was framed by modern elevators made of glass and metal. Undoubtedly, somewhere under them, there must be a huge vault with the most powerful protective and muffling spells, because he practically felt nothing: no pressure, no tingling - nothing that was expected when dealing with a variety of artifacts. But he admitted the possibility that even here, his stereotypical expectations would not come true.

Feeling somewhat deceived, John hurried after Holmes, who had already entered the glass elevator and was now frowning at him.

“You look upset. Why?”

John ran a hand through his hair in frustration and sighed. He didn’t know how to explain to a sincerely perplexed dark mage that he was upset by such a trifle as unjustified expectations. It was stupid, and he was perfectly well aware many times over and in detail, how Holmes did not tolerate other people's stupidity.

“I don't like it here,” and that was absolutely true. Perhaps this impression was created on purpose for visitors, but in this kingdom of chrome, marble and modern technologies, he had essentially no place to draw magic from. John involuntarily shrugged his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the phantom itch under his skin.

The elevator finally released them on the right floor, and he, obediently, followed the pensive Holmes. On the light walls of the spacious corridor were rare paintings. With surprise, John recognized them to be artifacts from the famous Royal Collection. He could definitely use a couple of them, or at least one of the artifacts for personal reasons. Though it might be that even the rarest and most powerful of artifacts would be practically useless to help his young acquaintances, to whom he made a promise to, and intended to keep.

As far as he remembered from the general theory, only another divine artifact could extinguish the power of a divine artifact, but their interaction could lead to unpredictable consequences, so he definitely needed something else. And affordable. Something that, if one looked through the systemic mess residing in the living quarters on Baker Street consisted of, might actually be useful to him.

Holmes moved with the confidence of a person who had been on this floor more than once and knew exactly which door he needed, which, among other things, didn’t prevent him from stopping at the secretary's desk and exchanging a few meaningless words with a pretty girl. It was fun to watch someone else's embarrassment mixed with fear. The girl was clearly impressed by Sherlock’s unusual appearance and expensive clothing, but she could not help but feel a foreign oppressive and dangerous aura.

“You don't have to see us off, we know our way.”

And Holmes really did know the way, and they were already expected. From behind a solid oak desk, a mage, whom John, of course, seeing for the first time, had stood up to greet them. When they appeared, the mage’s crimson aura rippled, lasting for some moments, but John had little time to consider these strange vibrations.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sebastian.”

A short greeting and the ensuing handshake could only be called friendly at a stretch. The mage Sebastian Wilkes didn’t make the most pleasant impression on John, so it wasn’t surprising that Holmes had looked unhappy all the way here.

“Who is that with you?” John was rewarded with the greedy look of black shiny eyes.

“My partner, Healer John Watson. John, this is my former classmate Sebastian Wilkes.”

“And the head of the Asia division (1).”

“Yes, yes, a long-awaited promotion. You even decided to mark it, changing the previous secretary to a new one,” the latter bit didn't even sound like a question, but Mr. Wilkes didn't even notice.

John watched with interest, the whole conversation, feeling that he was clearly missing some subtext.

“How did he get you, John? This guy is just unbearable, although he knows a great deal about artifacts.” Wilkes hastily changed the subject and willingly pounced on John, like a hound seeking prey. This was the second time in one day when he had to not only hear a reiteration of someone else's dissatisfaction with Holmes, but to also try to free his own hand from a strong grip.

“And about people,” John added blandly and looked at Sherlock with a smile. Holmes, just for a moment, looked so surprised that his heart sank and it became difficult to breathe.

“He definitely sees more than others, always knew who was sleeping with whom. It was so stressful when we studied together, although it didn’t let us all be bored.”

“So you kept in touch after graduation? That’s very sweet,” at his words, both former classmates involuntarily winced, as if they had eaten something sour.

“Sebastian somehow helped me get...a commodity,” Holmes decided to explain. John himself, had already guessed what kind of communication would connect these two people.

“Oh, yes... thank you for responding so quickly to my request.”

“Let's get to the point, Sebastian. What has happened that you needed me?” 

“We had a break-in. There is nothing to take here, as you know, except for office equipment, but it's still unpleasant. Therefore, I want you to test and restore the wards and defenses. And we will assume that we owe nothing to each other.”

“Agreed.”

(1) The Artifact Exchange is a permanent operating market of pure competition, where transactions of purchases and sales of various artifacts are carried out according to certain rules. That is, an artifact is a lot. In this case, they could be whole (the entire artifact) or incomplete (parts of one artifact), respectively. For the convenience of trading with different countries, and, accordingly, different time zones, the exchange is divided into divisions (European, Asian, etc.).  
Wilkes has a high position, which he hastened to boast of, however John could not appreciate this, since he is far from interested or involved in this subject, and Holmes does not care about such things.  
Also John only has a vague idea of what the Artifact Exchange is, and indeed, what the Exchange in general is, so his expectations as an ordinary citizen were really quite far from the reality.


	4. Chapter 4

A familiar yellow mark stared at John from a painting. It disfigured the canvas with its ugly smudging, but it did not interfere with the depicted artifact in the original painting. With talented performance, someone had drawn with beautiful, clear neat strokes, an oblong tube of unknown purpose. This artifact was completely unfamiliar to him, and John decided he would definitely find out about it as soon as the opportunity arrived and free time presented itself. 

John looked around with interest - it seemed that no one had paid any attention to this act of vandalism. Even Sherlock had just glanced lazily over the heavy carved frame and raised an eyebrow questioningly, as if asking what might have interested his partner. 

Watching the chaotic unexpected movements of the dark mage was informative, and John, without any surreptitiousness, enjoyed his process. Sometimes, John clearly saw the complex net of runes, and sometimes could only vaguely guess about their presence, so adroitly were they hidden from any inquisitive gaze, while Sherlock easily glided along the edge of their webs, teasingly touching with the tips of his long fingers. 

Sherlock’s presence disturbed the complex spells, making the magic within them pulsate and gleam. Regularly, John had witnessed such reactions, but every time he couldn't not help but be amazed. Before meeting Holmes, he had never known a mage or witch capable of such a thing. Once again convinced of the genius of his partner, he helplessly caught himself thinking how much more he still had to discover and study, and next to Sherlock, he had the freedom and chance not only to learn, but to provide all possible assistance as well.

Unbeknownst to him, they found themselves in a spacious room with many partitions and tables. Now they were accompanied by the greedy, curious glances of the Exchange's rank-and-file employees and their dull whispers occasionally disturbed by telephone calls.

Holmes, in his expensive coat and shock of unruly hair, stood out sharply as a darkly moving figure against the dull background of gray walls, bringing a gloomy animation with his presence. As usual, he was admired by strangers and repelled them in equal measure. His predatory pale face was now adorned with a rare expression of pleasure and excitement. John watched him with admiration; he was suddenly filled with a sense of pride that this mage had chosen him, John Watson, as his partner. 

"John, give me your hand," startled by the sudden request, though it sounded more like an order, Sherlock interrupted his thoughts, forcing him back to reality.

"Hmm? Oh, here." John obediently placed his into Sherlock's outstretched hand. At least this time he was asked for permission, and not just unceremoniously grabbed, which was a pleasant exception these days. Who would have expected that he would get such politeness from Holmes, who rarely bothered himself with such social norms.

Even living under the same roof and being in contact with Sherlock's magic every day, John still wasn't ready for the pressure and push, the power sweeping him off his feet and knocking out his breath. Now he could only hazily guess what Holmes was doing, he had never been part of or had been asked to take part in such practices. For Healers, they very rarely drew on someone else's strength. It was too dangerous and unpredictable for the lives of their patients due to too individualistic abilities and a chance of incompatibility. Furthermore, of all the Classes, they were the most self-sufficient, and as a rule, quite highly specialized. John was lucky from birth to have a talent for reading auras, but his main strength was in returning damaged tissues to their original state. 

John sucked in a gasp, a sudden idea coming to mind. He now knew exactly what to do and how to help the little disciples in the Temple. The solution, obvious in its simplicity, hadn’t come to his mind on its own, because he had never even tried to share his magic with anyone else. But he wouldn’t be engaging in healing, so he could even succeed, or rather, he should definitely try and see what would come of his venture.

But right now he was slowly falling somewhere, surrounded by darkness and inconceivable radiance intertwined in front of him in a bizarre pattern array. He hadn’t even realized at first, that the radiance came from himself. No matter how many times he had been told about this light, John never thought he would ever see it that close.

Being able to see other people's auras (1), he didn’t have the opportunity to observe his own. No matter how often he tried, even coming up with the most incredible of ways, starting with water and ending with special sensitive mirrors, the result remained unchanged. Around himself he could only see a strange muddy field, occasionally painted with the usual palette of colors. This fact surprised him since childhood, when he had just begun to intuitively learn to look and see what others could not so easily see. He could only be guided by someone else's perception and not always clear descriptions. Later at University, he learned that this was quite common amongst many Healers and calmed down.

It all ended as suddenly as it began. His heart sank down and then jumped up to beat convulsively somewhere in the throat. The pressure disappeared, and he felt an unprecedented lightness, and the only thing that still held him, not allowing him to leave the floor, were Sherlock’s soberingly cold fingers.

“Do you see this?” he could still see light flashes in Holmes' dark aura. It was fascinating; he wanted to reach out and try to trace this interlacing of colors with his fingertips, as this was clear proof of not only their partnership, but their compatibility. John blinked frequently, shaking off the vision, until the world returned to the boring office walls and the dark blue scarf in front of his eyes. They stood so close that John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath on his cheek.

“Yes.”

For some reason, John knew for sure that they were talking about completely different things, but didn’t focus on that. He himself did not know where this conviction came from.

“I didn't think it would be this interesting, it's so nice to be wrong sometimes. Your help was providential”

“What did you find out?” He was flattered to hear something like that from the dark mage, usually stingy with praise, but he still didn’t understand how he could be of help.

“That we now have not one, but two cases, John. The day promises to be interesting. At last.”

Holmes, confidently maneuvering through the maze of partitions, led them to someone's office. Through the thick transparent glass, it was clear that its owner was not there, not only did the secretary look puzzled, she was surprised to be distracted from the monitor when they appeared. In her sad eyes, it wasn't hard to read the obvious unasked question. John was sure that the same bewilderment was written on his face.

“Mr. Wang Kun still hasn’t answered your calls?”

“Y-yes ... Excuse me, do you have an appointment?”

“You have an exquisite amulet-hairpin.”

“Thank you,” The girl was completely confused. She looked helplessly at John, and he could only smile at her amiably. Under the attentive gaze of cold gray eyes, anyone felt uncomfortable, even he sometimes caught himself wanting to escape, when Sherlock's gaze began to follow his every movement.

John frowned. Sherlock seldom asked questions, only to inquire about something unimportant. The amulet was truly beautiful and was skillfully woven into blonde hair. But no matter how hard John tried, he did not see anything unusual in it.

They said goodbye hurriedly, or rather John said goodbye, Holmes, in his usual manner, having lost interest in his interlocution with the girl, hastened to leave. Having caught up with the dark mage at the elevator, he wanted to scold him for it, but changed his mind. It was easier to get a magical Storm to change trajectory than it was to convince a one-of-a-kind consulting mage of the benefits of etiquette when he had already gotten what he wanted.

“What's next?”

“Today we will have another social visit. We'll have to visit Mr. Wang Kun at his house.”

“Who is it?” John looked at Holmes curiously. There was a possibility that he was going to meet another classmate of the dark mage or just a person from his past.

“He is directly related to our second case.”

Leaving the Exchange, they smoothly merged into a mass of people and deftly emerged from it at the very edge of the sidewalk. Holmes habitually brushed aside several carriages until a black compact car pulled up in front of them. By tacit agreement, they now only used cabs, pre-checking them for traps.

His stomach gurgled insistently, reminding him that dinner time had long passed. Determined, John immediately resolved to correct this annoying omission, no matter what. He was far from the enthusiasm of a dark mage, who, being carried away by another case or experiment, would not eat for several days in a row, surviving on the expense of elixirs and potions, about which they had had their first and serious quarrel since they started living together. Furthermore, sharing part of his energy led to his body demanding compensation rather loudly.

“Why did we stop?” Only if he wanted to, John could sense Sherlock's indignation when Holmes finally looked up from typing out another text. He had made sure that the cab stopped in front of a bright sign promising fast service and delicious business lunches. An aura, not hidden by anything yet, went with familiar dark green flashes, foreshadowing discontent.

“Sherlock, I haven't eaten anything since this morning,” John explained patiently. “And now I'm starving. If you want me to be of any use, then we'd better have a bite to eat somewhere.”

“That’s boring.”

(1) Aura is a radiance around the head and body of a person. One of the main criteria for selection into the Class of Healers is having the vision to see the aura of living beings and determine their condition by the aura (including the diagnosis of diseases).


	5. Chapter 5

“Do I have something on my face?” John grudgingly hid from the piercing gaze of impossible gray-blue eyes behind a cup of coffee. Holmes, practically without blinking, studied him the entire time John was busy devouring the food set in front of him by the efficient waitress. The business lunch promised by the bright sign turned out to be quite edible, even the brought coffee was not bad.

If it were not for Sherlock’s close attention to his long-awaited meal and the fact that the dark mage had not ordered anything and hadn’t even bothered to take off his coat, then this could have even been taken as a harmless dinner between two friends.

“Sherlock? Is everything ok?”

“Of course.” 

“Well, I have a little doubt there. You are watching me too closely, more intently than usual. Trust me, this won't make me eat faster.”

“You have an expressive face.”

“Um...Thanks?” John took a last sip and leaned back on the spartan chair. Having decided to take what was said as a compliment, he had no choice but to silently agree with the obvious. He, too, considered his face expressive, which could not be said about the dark mage across from him. His rather indifferent face was usually animated by emotions for a narrow number of reasons, as John managed to find out during their, although brief, time together. And all of those reasons, as a rule, were associated with his Work. And experiments, which, however, were also part of the Work.

They were able to get a table by a window overlooking a busy street, but Holmes never glanced in that direction, preferring to watch him. This, of course, to some extent, flattered John's pride, though it was a little alarming all the same. John wanted to sit like this a little longer and enjoy the short lull and Sherlock’s attention, but they had more important things to do now that he had refreshed himself and recovered a little bit of his energy.

Holmes already knew the address they needed, to which John was not even surprised, so they just caught another cab and went to visit Mr. Wang Kun. For himself, John made perhaps a hasty, but in his opinion, an obvious conclusion - the mysterious Mr. Wang Kun and Holmes did not know each other. It's just that, even when he was absent from the workplace, he somehow managed to arouse interest in Sherlock.

The dark mage, in his unfamiliar liveliness, looked almost handsome. And John, unwittingly fortuitous, had the same passion and interest as him. Even the drizzling rain that began pouring from the grey sky could not spoil his high spirits; it was amazing what effect simple food, not even the best quality, could have on him. Though he admitted a high probability that the reason was still a new case, which promised to be at least interesting, since the dark mage was so inspired.

“Sherlock!” John didn’t know what prompted him to call out Holmes warily. Both the building itself and the floor they needed - everything seemed completely harmless. But he knew for sure that an unpleasant surprise awaited them behind a door with impressive locks.

Not really feeling any confidence, he nevertheless decided to put his palm on the light polished surface, ahead of the dark mage, who froze in surprise behind his right shoulder. From his hand, bright waves immediately scattered, activating the standard protective charms provided in addition to the complex locks by many manufacturers of expensive entrance doors.

The unpleasant feeling of being watched closely came almost immediately. On the other side of the door someone was waiting for them, but it was definitely no longer a living, breathing person. The mysterious Mr. Wang Kun no longer had to worry about being reprimanded by his superiors for his absence from the workplace, but they on the other hand could earn more trouble on their heads.

“Better call Lestrade and the Agents.”

“Hmm...” Holmes cocked his head to one side and listened to something. “I thought so. But we do not have time to wait until they receive all the necessary permits.”

“Trust me, better to do this my way.”

“John.”

“I insist.”

He hadn't hoped much to persuade Holmes, but he had already received one disciplinary hearing, and John wanted to avoid a second if possible. Moreover, for such avoidance, it was enough to show a little awareness. The dark mage leaned in closely, abandoning his usual manner of looming, and now their eyes were practically at the same level.

“Done. And what are we going to do while we wait for them?”

“You can try to interview the neighbors.”

Now that the dark mage's attention was occupied with a new idea, John could catch his breath with relief. Convincing Holmes was suspiciously easy, but he wasn't about to look too closely at it. He just had to rejoice at such small gifts of fate.

Interviewing the neighbors as possible witnesses gave practically nothing. At first they tried to do it separately, but Holmes, just by his appearance, instilled uncertainty and fear. So John, in order not to further frighten the unsuspecting tenants, had to push him into the background and undertake all the communication, tedious and monotonous as it was, upon himself.

As a result, when the first Agents appeared on the floor, he knew far too many details about the personal lives of complete strangers, but Holmes at least, looked pleased. For him, what was happening was another convenient experiment and practice for his deductive method.

John greeted Lestrade warmly, but before they could even exchange a word, Holmes rushed them inside. He, of course, was impatient to get started.

Opening the door turned out to be a short-lived affair, and they did not even have to involve attesting witnesses, he and Holmes readily acted in this role. The apartment looked untouched with no sign of a struggle or that the owner was worried about something. The body, as expected, was found in the bedroom, and there were also many facts leading to interesting conclusions. Conclusions with which not all of those present were in agreement to.

“Obviously, it was suicide,” said Dimmock, who had previously stood silently on the sidelines.

After sharing his opinion, the mage now looked confused and a little frightened. John was initially surprised to see him hesitantly entering the bedroom almost after them, but immediately conquered himself for his shortsightedness. As his new, albeit temporary, Inspector, Dimmock, of course, should have been involved in such matters.

As a Healer, John was used to answering only to the head of the department to which he was assigned, and the army, in principle, had its own hierarchy, very different from what was in civil society. Therefore, he still had to get used to coordinating many of his actions and reporting to his Inspector. And he once again regretted that Lestrade did not take him under his wing. Probably he also called Dimmock, because he, John, did not even think about it. And Lestrade’s efficiency could not fail to command respect, he himself got to know Dimmock only today. There was still an unlikely option that Holmes was involved, but it had a right to exist.

And now the young inexperienced Inspector voiced the conclusion laying on the surface, in which he was not alone. Even Lestrade raised his hands in agreement in a soothing gesture, but prudently said nothing.

“You look but you don't see!” Sherlock angrily looked at the long faces after his statement, until he settled on John with mute desperation in his eyes.

“This was not ritual suicide,” John knew for sure, because as soon as he crossed the threshold of this apartment, a faint dark shadow rushed towards him. The one who until recently, was Mr. Wang Kun, now trying to grab his hands, invariably passing through him with an unpleasant chill along the spine. The only explanation for this fact he could give was that he, himself once crossed the line between life and death, though this was the first time something like this had happened to him.

“It was murder. And this is a message,” John really saw someone's ominous message in the strange arrangement of the body on the bed, in the arrangement of visible artifacts and runes and in the sealed magic. Catching Holmes' approval, he continued, “I don’t know how to read it, you probably need something like a key, or a code word, but Mr. Wang Kun definitely didn’t die of his own free will.”

“And in this, my partner is absolutely right.” Holmes deliberately emphasized the word partner with his voice, which simultaneously embarrassed and pleased John. “Everything was done calmly and prudently. The murdered man himself was forced to prepare the stage for his death. The killer had foreseen almost everything except this little detail. Mr. Wang Kun is left-handed.”

“Left-handed?”

“Yes, everything in this apartment indicates that its owner uses his left hand as dominant - towels, kitchen utensils, even the TV remote control.”

“Let's say he's left-handed. What of it?”

John shook his head skeptically. Dimmock still had a lot to learn, and above all, to keep his mouth shut if he didn't want to look stupid in front of his more experienced colleagues.

“The rune that activates the last and final stage of the ritual is on the right. He would have to show a truly acrobatic skill so that, without changing position, he could reach it with his left hand. Of course, that’s if he had done everything himself and not with someone's help.”

“You can always interrogate the victim himself. We definitely have at least nine days for this.”

“But if you destroy the static nature of the ritual, the message will most likely be lost,” said John already pondering in his mind what could be done in the moment.

“Then we'll call a specialist,” Dimmock said again, which earned him even greater dissatisfaction from Holmes, who, standing stiffly, fixed a meaningful look at Lestrade. Where he was standing, John clearly heard the Inspector’s tired sigh.


	6. Chapter 6

“We can wait for the Ministry’s Necromancer, but there is a simpler and more affordable option,” Lestrade, with a habitual gesture, ran a hand wearily through his silvery hair, flashing a wedding ring. For some reason, John just now noticed the gold strip on the Inspector’s finger. Though if looked closely, Lestrade’s appearance fairly indicated that he was actually married, and it was a happy marriage as well.

“Sherlock has permission,” Lestrade explained to the bewildered Agents, who immediately nodded as if this fact was really something taken for granted.

“Finally, you remembered that,” Holmes grumbled. He had already managed to do several rounds of the apartment and, undoubtedly, made quite a few important conclusions, which, as usual, he was in no hurry to voice.

“As the official representative of the Ministry, I give permission to the Mage Sherlock Holmes to perform the Ritual of Calling Souls. I will share all responsibility with him.”

“I consent,” the dark mage only glanced in his direction while John watched this scene with curiosity. He had never had to be present for something like this, and, to be honest, he did not know how to react to what was happening or how to behave as one of the partners.

John didn’t know what to expect from the soul summoning ritual, but for sure, not what had occurred. Everything happened somehow too casually and boring. The world had narrowed to the size of one room, a bed with a light bedspread, and two figures. He not only could see everything that was happening, but also felt on himself everything that Holmes did. There were no pentagrams, no runes, nothing that John associated with the ritual of summoning. He must have heard a few words in Latin, but even that may have just been a figment of his imagination.

With a theatrical gesture, throwing back the flaps of his expensive dark coat, Holmes simply stood between the legs of the murdered man and spread his right palm over him with wide-spread fingers. For several minutes, nothing happened, until the dark mage reached out his hand in a bright blue latex glove to the pale neck and, squeezing the dead man's throat, lifted it above the bed. John swallowed involuntarily, shaking off the phantom sensation of cold, strong fingers holding his own neck.

The Force, feeling the weakened control, tried to escape from the yoke of Sherlock’s iron will, hurrying to surge into the bed and walls. John steadfastly accepted the first and strongest wave. A couple of hours ago he had already seen these dark like living ‘ribbons’, so he was not bewildered when they familiarly, carefully, wrapped around him. The rest were much less fortunate, only Lestrade remained on his feet, but he also had to lean on a chest of drawers. 

“Speak,” Holmes' voice sounded much muffled, as if he spoke from behind a veil. “Voice your message.”

Watching the limp, weakly trembling hands and thrown back head, it was hard to believe that this man was really dead. Especially not when the still recent corpse suddenly opened its eyes and began to shake its head.

_ “He will come. Don’t try to stop him.” _

The head finally stopped swinging from side to side, and now blind eyes were looking directly at him. He barely suppressed the involuntary urge to take a step back. What was talking to them now was definitely not Wang Kun's summoned soul; his faint shadow still huddled fearfully against him, not even trying to get close to his own body.

Holmes was also looking at him now, as if he had seen him for the first time. As if he, John, could surprise him again. However, the dark mage immediately frowned, clearly noticing some other’s presence. He threw out his other hand in their direction and clenched his fist, as if grabbing something to immediately yank it back to him. Magic revived around them again, scattering Agents who were not expecting the next outpouring, and only John, like last time, was reliably protected by Sherlock himself.

The dark shadow in Holmes' left hand thrashed desperately, trying to break free from his steel grip. John could see everything perfectly, and he even remotely began to understand what was happening until Sherlock forcibly shoved the resisting soul back into the body it had abandoned.

The already pale face of the dark mage now resembled an inanimate wax mask, even the habitually lively bright eyes faded beyond recognition. But he still stood adamant and unshakable, performing the ritual he alone knew.

Suddenly a black flower bloomed over the body, its delicate, almost transparent petals spread out in all directions, bashfully touching and passing through Holmes. The illusion seemed not only voluminous, it appeared truly alive. The delicate flower reached for something with faintly swaying leaves, but as soon as Sherlock twitched in anger, the illusion disintegrated, dissolving into the air in black ash.

“Speak.” The order in Holmes’ voice was impossible to resist. John felt his knees buckle from the desire to kneel before the dark majestic figure and tell him his innermost secrets. Any secrets, anything, just to fulfill Sherlock’s order. “Speak!” 

The body in the hands of the dark mage twitched again, but did not make a sound. It was just as painful to look at as it was to feel another's overwhelming force on oneself.

“Enough!” John hissed when there was no strength left to endure. He could only guess how the others felt, but what was happening urgently needed to stop.

Abruptly the ritual ended as suddenly as it had begun. The pressure disappeared; there was no more of a force knocking them down, just as there was no more otherworldly presence. 

Holmes stilled, deep in thought and not paying any attention to what was happening around him. John quietly took a deep breath, gaining determination, and boldly took a step towards the dark mage. With trembling fingers, he squeezed the icy hand, of which he had previously pulled off the now unnecessary glove, he wanted with this simple gesture, to show that he supported and accepted Holmes for who he was with all his strength and dark magic. This seemed requisite to him, and he did not care what the Agents present thought of them.

“Is this what I think it’s about?” Dimmock spoke first, breaking the awkward silence.

“Black Lotus,” Lestrade's voice was gravely uneasy.

“Do you think they’re involved in this?”

“Now we have every reason to believe so.”

“I don't know something?” John looked around in confusion at the Inspectors; they were clearly talking about something, even more - about something specific.

“The Black Lotus is the unofficial name of a religious sect that has recently appeared in the territory of magical Britain, which came to us from Asia. According to unofficial reports, this is one of the oldest and largest criminal syndicates in China, associated with the smuggling and illegal trade of rare artifacts,” Holmes' velvet baritone told him. John peered into such a familiar pale face with irregular proportions and was glad to see that the dark mage again resembled himself, and not a living corpse.


	7. Chapter 7

Easily jumping over the low fence, John became acquainted with something rather familiar crunching under his feet when he landed on the other side. In the grass, as far as the eyes could see, were hiding ripe apples, which no one was in a hurry to pick, except for the kids who came to the Temple to study, and who often didn’t even have lunch with them.

Patrick, a young acquaintance of Holmes, had boasted of this place to him on his very first visit, and now John knew exactly where he could intercept the boy for an expected conversation. He didn’t want to catch the eye of one of the local priests, even less so of the mentor’s, with whom he couldn’t find a common language, and his mentor’s smug behavior didn’t contribute to this process in any way.

He had to hide in the shade of the most densely planted part of the garden and wait patiently for dinner time. Or, more precisely, when the mentor finally deigned to let the children go for a long-awaited break.

John leaned back and put his hands behind his head. He knew he would have to wait, so he dressed warmly and had cast a warming spell on himself beforehand. It was calm and quiet near him, and only the rustle of foliage occasionally broke this idyll. Through the leaves, shimmering in all shades of green in the sun, he could see a small part of the piercing blue sky. Relaxing, he allowed the luminous stream to calmly pass through him, taking nothing and giving nothing. Such moments of tranquility now happened to him so rarely, John was in a hurry to enjoy this feeling of unity and belonging, as if by chance he could touch eternity in the here and now.

The incoherent noise of voices disturbed his peace, destroying the integrity of the moment, without regret he shook off the remnants of a slumber and sat up. He needed Patrick, although any child John saw with him would do.

Whistling softly, he waited. This signal, of course, was taught to him by Holmes, but before now he had not had the opportunity to use it, so John doubted a little whether he did everything as he should have.

“John!” a small head stuck out from the bushes nearby.

“Hey, Patrick. I was hoping to find you here today. I need help in a case,” he pointedly winked at the boy. “It won’t take a lot of time.”

“Sure!”

He had never before attempted, of his own initiative, to share power with someone, and though his idea was somewhat different from the traditional notion of Separation (1), he needed to be sure that he could succeed before giving the children false hope.

“Now listen to me carefully,” they sat down opposite each other right there in the bushes, and John was a bit apprehensive. He was also seized by excitement and anticipation, a feeling that he now strongly associated with Holmes and his Work. More precisely, now with their Work. “I have never done this before, and I may not succeed the first time, so you and I will, one might say, be pioneers.”

He chose Patrick, not only because he was Holmes' liaison, but also because the boy had a long-lasting strong aura, which was only a benefit for both of them. After all, he didn’t lie when he honestly admitted that he could fail.

“Let's get started?”

“Yeah.”

John held out his hands, implying that he should put his own on top, and Patrick confidently and without delay did so. This flattered and put a burden of responsibility on his, John's, shoulders. He tried to remember exactly what he felt when he shared his power with Holmes, more precisely, when Holmes took his own strength from him, so as not to scare and stun the boy who so bravely agreed to take part in an unfamiliar ritual.

The boy’s aura wavered under his pressure, so he tried to reach the necessary channels as gently as possible.

Around them flowed the magic of a divine artifact, alien and ancient. As beautiful as it was, it was also dangerous if one didn’t know how to address it. John let it just flow through them, giving both himself and Patrick time to become accustomed to the new sensations, and then slowly, gradually, began to introduce him to the Stream.

Finding one’s Balance was one of the fundamental skills that were taught in early childhood. More precisely, until recently, John naively believed so, growing up in a relatively prosperous average English family.

“Oh...This is...amazing!”

“Isn’t it?” John gently freed himself from the hands that were clutching at him. Another's sincere surprise and admiration made him delighted and reassured. Out of habit, he gave the boy a trained Look of a Healer, but didn’t notice any deviations; however, the magic here was a bit strange and wild.

“Thanks!”

“When you manage to enter the Stream on your own, then you will say thank you. Will you be able to gather everyone here in that corner of the garden?” he waved to the side behind him, pointing to a small open clearing.

“Will be done.”

Having delivered the request, John hastened to move closer to the clearing, and now he was seating children around him - the smallest or weakest in strength closer, older or with more stable auras further away.

“This is all?”

“Everyone who came today,” Patrick said, looking around. “We have twenty minutes until we’re missed. Will it be enough?”

“More or less. Good. Now we will all join hands, and I will help you understand how to move from one stage of meditation to another with my own example,” he had no doubt that Patrick whispered a couple of explanations to everyone, so he got down to business right away.

Several children's hands immediately rose into the air.

“What is it, Maggie?”

“Will it look like a Call?”

“No, absolutely not. Fear nothing, I will simply become your guide. This way you can feel what it means to enter the Stream and remember this feeling. In the future, you can simply focus on these memories when meditating. Clear?”

“Yes,” a discordant chorus of voices was heard around.

“Still have questions?”

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” laughed John and looked into the such different faces of these small adults. “The ability to wield magic is an incomparable gift. A gift that needs to be developed, in which you need to work tirelessly and protect. And a little help along the way won't hurt anyone, does it?”

Before him sat twelve children, not counting Patrick, who stood at a distance and had to warn them in case anybody from the Temple appeared. John knew he was doing nothing reprehensible, but he could not help feeling that it was better for no one to know what he was doing here. The nature of the local divine artifact unsettled him. It seemed to him that he was about to understand something, but it stubbornly continued eluding him over and over again.

The Stream let them in indifferently, and John froze at the very edge, giving the children time to get used to the new unfamiliar sensations. He was pleased to hear the kids’ admiring sighs, and he sincerely hoped that this would help them.

“Remember this feeling well so that you will never again confuse it with anything. We will try everything together a few more times, and then you will try on your own. I have no doubt that you will succeed, and you can even help others without my participation.”

Receiving consent from each of his little pupils, he once again took hold of the hands extended confidingly to him.

“And remember, this is our secret, do not tell anyone about it.”

He decided not to clarify that there was still at least one other person who nevertheless, knew about his presence now in the territory of the Temple, and without whose help he would not even have been able to take a step beyond the guarded border. The gatekeeper listened favorably to his request and agreed to help by letting him inside, which was the key point of his plan, now practically implemented to the end.

“And now I will demonstrate with my example, while we are all in the Stream, how the principle of borrowing usually works. You all already know the warming spell, so we’ll use that.”  
He chose the warming spell, not only because the children, many of whom not dressed for the weather, were now freezing, though they were still, patiently and curiously waiting for the demonstration. This particular spell didn’t require some kind of complex or intricate activation, only two runes. They were sufficient enough to be applied to clothes or any open skin, or even just be drawn in the air in front of a person, though setting the distance made it more difficult, it was necessary so the effect of the heat emitted by the runes could extend back to the person.

Since the two necessary runes were already activated on him, John decided to warm all the kids in one go. Unhurriedly drawing in the air in front of him an uncomplicated ligature in the required sequence, he habitually let the magic pass through him and fill the created spell with itself.

John looked around in surprise. The world did not turn upside down; everything was still in its place: the children who looked at him with undisguised admiration, and the trees with their dense green crowns, and the grass hiding ripe apples. Neither the sky above nor the earth beneath them - nothing had changed place, and now he could use magic without reserve at the Ministry or the Agents, and he did not do anything illegal, but he still had a feeling that what was happening was wrong. Therefore, out of habit, he hid his presence, and hastily scattered the residual echoes of the runes used.

“John, you glow so brightly. Is that how it should be?”

“Um,” John was confused for a moment; he’d forgotten that others could sometimes see his strangely glowing aura. Only he didn’t expect that these children could do so too. Probably, the whole point was that it was he who was a guide and giver. “It all depends on the mage or witch.”

The loud ringing of the bell reminded them that the break was almost over, and the children reluctantly began to disperse, talking animatedly about what had happened. Reminding them once again that they had agreed to keep quiet about everything, he said goodbye to everyone and left the same way, through the fence that he had come over. His experiment today could be safely viewed as successful, so now he could return home with a clear conscience.

A cold dinner was waiting for him at Baker Street thanks to Mrs. Hudson, Holmes was also present. He was strangely quiet, not unusual in general, so John did not worry once again, but simply warmed up the plate left to him by the elderly witch and sat down tiredly at the table. He could think of Sherlock's behavior on a full stomach; he had spent so much energy helping the children, now he needed to restore it as soon as possible. Who knew how the evening with Holmes could end, and he was better off being prepared for any surprises.

When the kettle whistled behind him, he even decided to show generosity, knowing in advance what Holmes’ answer would be.

“Sherlock, would you like some tea?”

“Yes, as usual.”

“Did you eat anything today?” John strongly suspected that no, he didn’t, but still considered it necessary to clarify, “Biscuits and elixirs don’t count.”

“No,” Sherlock’s answer, heard right in his ear, made him flinch in surprise. He could not get used to such a sudden reappearance of the dark mage, which he considered unfair. John was always proud of both his instincts and his reactions, but he still hadn't been able to guess even once when Holmes would decide to suddenly appear in front of him like this.

“Don't do that, I already asked,” John muttered gruffly, now he didn't want to make tea for him simply because of feeling contradictory.

“Hmm,” the stool nearby was already occupied, and now the dark mage, pulling his legs up to his chest and bending over in an inconceivable arc, was carefully examining him. John rolled his eyes and returned to his cooling dinner; they had done this more than once.

“Come on, don't be shy, tell me how my day went.”

(1) In this case, this meant the division of magical powers between mages.


	8. Chapter 8

John often had strange dreams, though they were always preferable to the usual nightmares where he woke up in the morning with only vague memories and feelings of hopelessness.

After waking up, he always remembered every little detail. This time he dreamed that he became a bird. In this dream, an ash-white wall of mountains stretched before him, its snow-covered peaks gleaming redgold in the red-yellow sun. The mountains flowed smoothly into the forest. Majestic trees in dark green armor gazed at the sky with hostility. Nearby was hidden a wide valley covered with pebbles and boulders abutting against inaccessible slopes. In the middle of the valley, meandering and rustling, a river ran, bubbling with foam between stones and trunks brought by the stream.

He looked down from a bird's-eye view, and his heart ached from unexpectedly surging sadness. A barely noticeable path wriggled between rare stunted trees, hidden in the withered grass to finally disappear into the forest. Sometimes there were dazzling black flowers in the grass. Like spilled ink, they spread across the ground in black specks in intricate patterns.

This time, for him, the guide of Onirs (1) was not an old woman, but a raven. He flew around him several times, rolling his eyes-beads, and only then John realized that he was soaring, catching the currents of air with large strong wings. He himself became a raven, a guide of dead souls and a messenger of the gods.

“Look down. Tell me what you see,” The bird croaked.

“I see black flowers,” Now wherever he looked, he saw these strange blooms. They, like a cancerous tumor, spread throughout the valley, threatening to spread to the mountain ranges and stain their whiteness.

“You saw right.”

“What did I see?” He shouted somewhere into the endless sky, waking up. But the room, as expected, answered him with silence, filled only with his convulsive breathing. John leaned wearily back on the pillow and after a minute, pulled out a small notepad from under it, which he kept for convenience just for such occasions.

The bedside light blinded him momentarily until he reminded himself to close his eyes. All the same, he had to blink the colored spots away for a while, and then fumbled around the bed in search of a pencil, which had covertly rolled away from him to the other side.

With trembling hands, in uneven lines, he entered the date, time, and essence of the dream into the already existing table. He managed to effectively stumble across the Internet into a forum of the Dreamers, from which he took some practical advice. One such piece of advice was to keep a dream diary, which he now compelled himself to do.

Only four pages were written in his notebook in addition to the searching he did for information about the artifact that caught his eye at the Exchange. It became another reason to be added to the list of reasons for visiting the Library. He was sorely lacking in basic knowledge. The books he found in Holmes’ extensive collection were, though informative, still highly specialized and, as a result, still useless for him. 

John glanced at his watch and sighed with disappointment. Three in the morning. He didn’t want to sleep anymore, thoughts swarmed in his head, building conjectures and sweeping aside one assumption after another, and he had no choice but to go downstairs.

The house was asleep, and even his sudden awakening did not disturb the applied ward runes or energy accumulation runes. He was not in danger, which meant that the complex system of runic tying, which he and Holmes had built together, did not give an alarm signal to either Holmes or Lestrade. Nor Mycroft Holmes, as John strongly suspected.

He didn’t sense the presence of the dark mage, but the skull on the mantelpiece blazed with a lively blue flame when he appeared, which could only mean one thing - his master was somewhere nearby. At one point, John categorically refused to have anything to do with this experiment of Holmes - he had no desire to imbue an already talkative skull of unknown origin with his magic.

“John-John-John,” The skull sang contentedly. He was clearly impatient to tattle on his creator.

“What did he do this time?” John wearily rubbed his eyes and sank into his favorite chair, preparing to listen to the skull’s displeasure. Though he already had a good guess what it was about. He strongly suspected communication with Sebastian Wilkes could hardly cheer anyone up. Given his already strained relationship with Holmes, it wasn’t surprising that Sherlock was out of sorts. John considered himself lucky enough to slip out the door at the very beginning of this unpleasant telephone conversation between the two, which he now ranked as a personal achievement. His day, unlike Holmes’, was very productive, even if it was filled with the usual household chores. 

“Sherlock was infuriated after talking with Wilkes, and you weren't there to brighten up his day and cheer him up. That slippery guy only thinks for his own benefit. Imagine! He said that he wouldn’t give Sherlock access to the Vault, since there is no reason to believe that something was stolen. What then began! I was afraid that he would destroy half the room in a rage.”

The sleepy mind refused to cooperate, but it stubbornly continued to think in the same direction, listening out of the way to the skull's story and even nodding and assenting in the right places. In John’s eyes, the magic object had too much free will, already making it truly unique and inimitable, as any other thing that the dark mage undertook. It was only logical to assume that this skull talking to him was a reflection of one of Holmes’ sides, but that was as far from the truth as… John thought for a moment about a possible comparison. This was as far from the truth as the claim that Holmes the younger was not a dark mage, and the elder was not a Necromancer. 

“... and then he just went and laid down on the sofa and was there until you came… jumped up and locked himself in his room…”

John made a note to himself that he was right, and Holmes was home in the next room over, though he still couldn't feel his presence. This was surprising and a little alarming. Usually, in their territory, fortified and defended a few times so that no outside mage, barring those close to them, like Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, could disturb them without activating a complex chain of spells and runes, they could always accurately determine the location of each other's position. But not now. And there was something wrong with that. He’d already had several assumptions on the dark mage’s always sudden appearance in front of him when he didn’t even feel his magic, and now he could just check one such idea.

He was drawn to touch the invisible streaks of the runes, and he didn’t resist this desire. The skull fell silent for a moment, obviously interested in his strange behavior.

“What are you doing?” Of course it couldn’t be quiet for a short time.

“Hmm,” John saw all the modifications made to the spell. “Sherlock has tweaked a couple of weak points in our spell... Oh!”

At his touch, the runes sang harmoniously, and a faint pulsation ran through the delicate weave to return to him with a tangible tingling sensation throughout his body.

Holmes’ solution to the energy replenishment problem was surprisingly beautiful in its simplicity. But that was not all. Now, along the length of the entire chain, there were several "pockets" (2), in which one could hide if desired, and not a single search spell could find what was hidden. Now he understood how the dark mage managed to hide all of his darkest experiments and artifacts, the possession of which he could no longer get off with a simple disciplinary commission. John shook his head in admiration, he was indeed close in his assumptions to the truth, though not brave or bold enough himself. He definitely shouldn’t have underestimated Sherlock’s talent, of which he was convinced of over and over again, and yet all the same, he again lost sight of it.

“Good. I waited for you to guess,” Holmes loomed over him with sparkling eyes. There was clearly no trace of the former bad mood, for which John secretly rejoiced. And the dark mage again appeared next to him so suddenly that he couldn’t even understand from which "pocket" he came out. “Yours is in the hallway near your bedroom.”

“You could have told me,” John muttered, smiling. What he got, was a look that clearly said, "and where is the fun in that?" and a demonstrative shrug of shoulders wrapped in a navy blue silk robe. Holmes didn’t even bother to tie it up, and now John could see silk pajama pants, t-shirt stretched around the neck and gray from numerous washes. White graceful feet, not hidden now by expensive shoes, looked strangely defenseless against the background of a multi-colored carpet in their living room. “It's amazing.”

“Thanks. Somewhere in the Library there is even my monograph on this topic, but for obvious reasons, my method has not been widely used.”

“Explainable. I would never have had the strength and talent to repeat something like that. By the way, how old were you when you wrote it?”

“Fourteen.”

“Amazing,” he was able to praise Holmes as naturally as breathing. Because it was easy, he was brilliant and amazing. The most amazing mage he has ever met.

“What was in your vision?”

John shuddered involuntarily. Of course, one quick glance in his direction was enough for Sherlock to know not only how he spent his day, but also that his dreams were not interrupted by another nightmare as a greeting from his past life. What Holmes called visions were just strange dreams to him, but the dark mage persisted in calling them that, giving them more meaning and importance than John himself would like to give them.

(1) Onirs - the deities responsible for creating and managing dreams in ancient Greek mythology;

(2) Pockets - In this context, the term is denoting the curvature of space in matter with the help of magic. Strictly tied to a specific location and power source. Since Holmes, while still a teenager, learned to solve the issue of energizing by making the entire system integral (closed) and self-sufficient, he also learned to create spatial curvatures. With the advent of John (John’s presence) he was able to make several pockets at once (two for himself and one for John personally).


	9. Chapter 9

From the Author: This chapter was inspired by a scene from the movie “Constantine”. I love this movie. When I was thinking about the scene on the street, a scene from the film immediately surfaced in my mind, and I could not resist - it is simply gorgeous.

The lights suddenly went out all across the floor. John rubbed his eyes, tired from reading and got up from the table. At this late hour he was the only visitor on the floor, and maybe even in the entire Library, and he certainly should not have lingered so long, who knew what Sherlock could have done during such a long absence. After all, he had left that one to himself for almost two days, and that simply couldn’t end well, therefore, picking up his bag and jacket, he hurried out of the reading room.

It was dark outside, and it appeared to be raining, though it might only have seemed so. The enchanted windows of the Library rarely provided the opportunity to pinpoint exactly what was happening outside. Too many ancient books and folios resonating, always slightly distorting the space in close quarters with it. John took out his mobile and, unlocking the screen, espied out in the darkness, a part of the worn floor and the peeling wall of the corridor, at the end of which a silhouette of a Guardian froze.

He seemed to indeed be the last visitor. It was surprising that he wasn’t asked to leave the Library earlier; he didn’t remember if he was assigned any special status for visits. Although, with the Holmes, one could expect anything - even a limited visit to the forbidden sections.

He had to hurry, though he didn’t find what he was looking for. Surprisingly, neither in the books nor in the newspaper files, he couldn’t find a single mention of the artifact that interested him so. There was hope in Sherlock, but the likelihood that such minor information was stored in his vast Mind Halls were small. As he managed to find out, Holmes with amazing ruthlessness, got rid of everything, in his opinion, unimportant for the Work.

John could still ask Inspector Lestrade, but he didn’t want to bother him over such an insignificant matter, when he himself could not explain the curiosity that had arisen or a premonition of the importance of the image he had seen, he just felt that it was worth knowing about.

To avoid wasting time completely, he leafed through several basic textbooks on Dreaming and dream management, and even planned to buy one for himself. The internet and the forums were undeniably helpful, but one couldn’t forget the basics, for which he couldn’t afford to go back to school for this time. There was also the option of evening courses, which were preferable in his case, but so far, without at least some significant income, he could not afford them.

Finding a job he could keep while with Holmes had been second on his list of priorities after the appointment of the Inspector. If he had more or less decided on everything with the Inspector, then with the Work, everything was much more complicated.

He had a choice to resume the practice of the Healer, though not at the same level, but for this, he first had to find a place where he could have part-time work, the opportunity to constantly ask for time off and, most importantly, no serious patients. John still doubted that even with his new-found Balance, he could fully deal with the treatment of people, so he saw a real option of either a small private practice, or a municipal hospital in the outskirts, which would be glad to welcome any Healer. It was certainly not worth hoping for a great salary, of course, with such options, but he could at least start with that. Lost in thought, John didn’t notice pulling on and buttoning his jacket on autopilot, going out into the street, emerging from the dark walls of the Library.

It was an ordinary London evening, damp and chilly, with a premonition of rain, he was not in danger of getting wet because he forgot his umbrella. And if he wasn’t too lazy, then he could even not freeze by casting a warming spell. Out of habit, John ran his fingers through his pockets, where he now always carried his permission. He couldn’t even think that he would begin to value this piece of plastic so much, previously taking it for granted, he began to especially appreciate it after what had happened to him.

The mere thought that he could now freely use his magic, without looking back towards the Agents of the Ministry, without doubt and without fear, filled him with joy and gratitude. As he strongly suspected, these feelings would last for a long time, accompanying his every action, every divination or spell cast. It wasn’t so easy to take and forget the threat of receiving the Mark and the terrifying prospect of losing his magic forever.

An echoing silence hung around him, broken only by his quiet steps. No random passers-by, no extraneous sounds, as if he were walking in a vacuum. His instincts screamed at him to speed up his pace so that he could quickly find himself in the illuminated section of the street, which suddenly seemed so far and dim. 

John sucked in the moist air deeply and frowned. The smell seemed vaguely familiar to him, as if some kind of spice had been mixed in with the rotten foliage, and he seemed to have inhaled it somewhere quite recently, but couldn’t remember where exactly.

Slipping his hand as lightly as possible into an inside pocket, he felt for a small round sphere and squeezed it tighter. This part of London was very different from the place where he had to live before, but he didn’t rule out that evil spirits could be found here too. It was hard to believe, but the cold tingling sensation sliding down his neck and throat and the cold sweat streaming down his back could only be explained by the presence of a couple of demons. It was strange that he hadn’t noticed their presence earlier, but with each step he took, he was more and more certain. He was definitely being pursued by evil spirits, and at this time and in this place, simply had no reason to be here.

After what happened with the cabman last time, he not only began to check every car he got into for traps, but also began to carry several universal amulets with him. He was not at all tempted by the prospect, like that time, of being completely helpless, and now he could only praise himself for such foresight. The small sphere that he was now clutching in his hand, although a weak defense, could be used in different ways depending on the situation, and now the situation clearly required divine intervention, or rather divine light or its weak counterpart - the breath of the dragon.

Stopping abruptly and pulling the sphere out of his pocket, John threw it with all his might against the sidewalk, resulting in a blinding flash of light and a prolonged howl that made his ears ring and everything going cold inside him.

“Arghh!” John jumped to the side and started to run. He certainly least expected to be pursued by several lesser demons. Ugly and composed of different body parts from stray animals, but still agile and dangerous. He urgently needed to get to a busy and well-lit section of the street, the sooner the better. More than ever, he was glad that he now didn’t need a cane, though the lack of training still made itself be felt that he decided to start correcting it in the very near future. Provided, of course, that he managed to get out of this mess unharmed.

When he only had to cross a narrow street and another gateway, an inconspicuous black car with tinted windows braked right in front of him. From the thrown open door smelling of expensive cologne, leather and incense, and no matter how suspicious everything that was happening looked, he seemed to already know who was behind it all, therefore, without hesitation, jumped inside.

“Devil! Mycroft!”

“You flatter me, John,” the elder of the Holmes brothers chided him with a modest smile. “But I will not hide that our meeting was not a surprise for me.”

“I don't even doubt it. Your handiwork?” John cautiously peered into the side window, but the other side of the tinted glass reigned complete serenity, as if there was no pursuit behind him, and he had made everything up for himself.

“What do you mean? I was just passing near, knowing that you were late at the Library, and I decided to give you a lift to Baker Street. I see I was on time.”

Such self-confidence irritated him, if he wasn’t more or less accustomed to Sherlock’s antics and behavior, then Holmes senior irritated him a little and sometimes even frightened him.

“Um,” John ran his hand through his hair in confusion. He didn’t believe a single word from the Necromancer sitting opposite, but he could not prove otherwise. “You can't leave them to roam the streets freely.”

“Don't worry, dear John. My people will take care of everything.”

“So you really just decided to give me a lift home?”

“So much mistrust. It hurts me.”

“So what did you want to talk to me about? And don't think Sherlock won't find out.”

“Oh, it's hard to hide something from my dear brother, and it's good that we won't even try.”

“… Okay,” John finally got into a comfortable position and stopped looking through the window every now and then. The appearance of lesser demons unsettled him; it was worth seriously thinking about carrying a weapon with him constantly, or a strong defense. Although the latter had the most problems - he did not have even the slightest bit of a strong artifact, and Holmes, in principle, did not need them, so there was no point in even asking. In the end, it all again came down to looking for a job so that he finally had some extra money.

“Since you, dear John, have now become an integral part of my brother's life, your safety has become as much a priority for me as that of Sherlock himself, so let me give you a humble gift. I dare to hope you both will appreciate it and will not refuse.”

A small black box tied with a black ribbon was held out to him.

“Should I open it now?”

“It's up to you, dear John. By the way, we are already here. All the best.”

“Oh, yes, thanks.”

John said goodbye and fell awkwardly out of the car, his legs still feeling like jelly. Now that the adrenaline had completely subsided, he could think rationally. What had happened was a test, a sophisticated, non-obvious, rather strange situation, but still a test. Though there was still a small percentage that Mycroft Holmes had nothing to do with it, it was still the least believable scenario, so John decided to simply ignore that possibility.

Beyond the door, a familiar image awaited him. One couldn’t even argue that they had the case for it to be familiar. Sherlock, with his hands folded under his chin in a prayer’s gesture, was reclining on the sofa and in no hurry to give any signs of life, which lasted until John came closer.

“You met Mycroft,” Holmes jumped up with displeasure and in two steps flew up to John, who was already mentally preparing for interrogation.

“And hello to you. Yes about that ...”

“I didn't think he'd get ahead of me, but,” Sherlock carefully took his hand, still clutching the black box, and turned it from side to side, looking closely. “It's a good gift. This time Mycroft turned out to be useful in some way, you can safely use it.”

“I can imagine how difficult it is to give you gifts for your birthday or New Year. I bet you always know what's inside.” Smiling, John gently released his hand and pulled on the tape, curiosity beginning to torment him.

“Yes,” the one-of-a-kind consulting dark mage confirmed smugly and snatched out of his hand this unexpected gift with lightning speed. “But even I can be surprised if you make an effort.”

“Hey! Give it back!”

“But John, this is great practice of my method. Show me what you have learned so far.”

“Yes, yes, I really can't wait to make a fool of myself. Again.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears))  
> New Monday - new chapter))) have a good time reading)) comments and your thoughts on what is happening with boys are always welcome)
> 
> UPDATE: this week will be only one chapter. Sorry, my dears. And I think from now it will be only one chapter per week due to the RL of mine and my dear beta.

He liked Sarah Sawyer from the very first minute of their acquaintance. Her golden aura evoked thoughts of a quiet summer evening and peace. With a pleasant open face and large expressive eyes, she seemed almost perfect to him.

Embarrassed, John shifted in his seat, and out of habit ran his hand over his ear with the new amulet earring. Mycroft Holmes had so courteously presented it to him, albeit under strange circumstances, and for which he had had to listen to a long and inspiring lecture from Sherlock, and it now replaced his three old wards. He was so used to wearing them, almost never taking them off, and though at his age such jewelry might seem out of place, he secretly liked the way he had looked with them. It reminded him of his tempestuous youth and desire to impress young witches. It turned out that the desire to impress was still there. He really wanted the attractive witch sitting opposite to pay attention to him. Even if nothing happened with the hiring, something positive from this interview still had a chance to stay. 

Thanks to the Internet, he was able to quickly find several suitable job openings for himself, therefore, without wasting any time, he sent everyone his resume. Even in his humble opinion, it turned out to be quite impressive, and now he could only hope that his rich track record did not scare away potential employers.

Holmes had ignored him all morning, clearly realizing at once what he, John, was so focused on. Although they did not directly discuss the possibility for him to work somewhere else, Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, so he had nothing against it, or so John consoled himself.

Making a living consulting other mages and Ministry Agents could have been a lucrative pursuit, if only Holmes didn’t find most of their clients boring, stupid and not interesting. To which he constantly pointed out in his usual manner, further aggravating his already existing unflattering opinion of himself.

And now, sitting opposite his potential employer and just nice, witch, John more and more desperately wanted the answer to be yes.

“John, I won’t hide, you have an impressive resume. And though we desperately need specialists like you, I believe that your talent is simply too exemplary for us.”

“There, you are wrong. This place is exactly what I need to fully adapt to a peaceful life,” he slightly twisted his words, he didn’t see any harm in some distortion of reality.

“Oh... You also indicated that your partner is a dark mage. Will this be a problem?”

John, as with the case of Inspector Dimmock, immediately became alert. It didn't seem like Miss Sawyer knew anything about Sherlock Holmes though. He had a reputation in certain circles, but he strongly doubted that average Healers would know that much, if they’ve even heard of Sherlock.

“It’s another reason why I can only take a few shifts a week. My contract does not imply so much free time,” Here, he definitely wasn’t being cunning. “My partner and I work as consultants in the Ministry of Magic.”

John wondered if he should give all the details of the nature of their consulting to Miss Sawyer. There was a possibility that his outspokenness could greatly reduce his chances of success, though sooner or later he would still have to tell her more about Sherlock and their work.

“You are more than suitable for us. When can you start?”

John breathed a sigh of relief and mentally tried a future schedule for his and Holmes' business.

“I can be in on this Thursday.”

“Great, then you should check the accounting department before you leave. I can also show you everything here ... if you are not busy right now.”

“I am now absolutely free.”

John rubbed the amulet in embarrassment again, but didn’t look away. His answer was so hasty that even a deaf person would have guessed that by it, he meant something completely different and not that he had time to tour his future place of work.

He really liked Healer Sarah Sawyer, but she still wasn’t the one from whom he expected reciprocal feelings. Perhaps it was not at all gentlemanly to use this witch, wonderful in every respect, in such a cynical way, but he needed to somehow test his theory, and she, even at first, superficial glance, was an ideal candidate for the implementation of an uncomplicated plan that came to his mind....

Of course, from the very beginning, he began to suspect that Sherlock not only just treated him differently from the others. Other people's words and actions, as well as hints from Mycroft Holmes and from their mutual acquaintances, more than eloquently confirmed his thoughts about the nature of Sherlock's feelings for him. Likewise the people around them, from the very beginning of their sudden partnership, firmly believed that he and Sherlock were together as a couple.

“Good. Great... I'm quite delighted.”

The tour, as he expected, was short. The small hospital had only two floors with administration and accounting on the first. It was not possible to say that everything was very run-down, but the last time it was renovated was obviously about twenty years ago, and peeling paint, crumbling plastic, and outdated equipment screamed it. The only thing that John really liked, and that many modern buildings and even more hospitals lacked, was the truly authentic magic around. Both the dilapidated walls and the creaking floors under foot breathed it, helping the Healers to cope with their work.

Not surprisingly, the hospital still persisted no matter what. John felt no echoes, no alien presence - only peace. Both the location and the layout were certainly wonderful, and John decided to mention it in his casual conversation with Healer Sawyer.  
“You are right, this is a unique place. An underground source runs deep below us, which intertwines with another source of power, and this gives the effect of purification. We are lucky that this is in the outskirts, and not the most prosperous area. Although with the factory closed for a long time, this place doesn’t attract developers, which means that they don’t touch us either.”

“ Amazing. I immediately felt that the place is good. And the security charms are still in excellent condition.”

“Truly?”

“Mmmm... Yes, someone did an excellent job at the time. Look here,” with his fingertips, John touched the thin ligature invisible to the uninitiated eye, and a thin, barely audible chime spread around them. “The evil that is attracted by pain and suffering can never overcome this barrier.”

“Oh!”

The security charms, made once by a skilled craftsman, rang around them like disturbed bells, in harmony with the underground source. Now he could clearly feel it - the unhurried flow of water under the thickness of the earth, from which inexhaustible strength could be drawn. A truly ideal location.

“Even my soul became brighter... You know, John, I'm more and more glad that you decided to choose us.”

“I'm also glad that I chose you. I think working here will be perfect for me.”

Now that he literally had work in his pocket, John allowed himself to relax a little. Although the pleasant witch nearby didn’t really let him catch his breath - as much as he liked Holmes, he still remained a man. In addition, Sherlock did not take any decisive action, which was a constant source of doubt for John.

And he hadn't been on a date for so long that it was hard to believe that he was once called Three Continents Watson. And while there was a lot of exaggeration in his reputation, something was still true. He knew how to charm, it was only a matter of desire. Now John was at a loss as to whether he really wanted it or whether it was what he needed. He really didn’t know and couldn’t guess if he had to risk it and invite this witch on at least one date or not.

Examining her blond hair, pale skin and well proportioned figure, he still couldn’t make up his mind. Perhaps they should have looked at each other a little more, though he could clearly see interest in the witch's gaze.

_ Another murder. Call Dimmock. SH. _

This unexpected message shattered the charm of the moment. And this had already happened to him, it seemed, quite recently. He’d once before received, just as sudden, a message from Sherlock, while standing at a crossroads. It amazed him how Holmes could feel his hesitation and uncertainty, as if they were really connected. And this particular point was definitely not in their contract - an uncomplicated text even on enchanted paper simply couldn’t give such opportunities.

“It's from my partner. An important call.”

_ Where to? _

“I understand and won’t detain you any longer. You can look into the accounting department later. But I’m still waiting for you this Thursday at nine.”

“Sure.”

He had to say goodbye hurriedly, and dial Dimmock on the run, who, as expected, wasn’t particularly happy by his call. It looks like he should start looking for a better candidate for the position of his Inspector. John involuntarily thought of Mycroft, and just as involuntarily winced. He didn’t want to turn to the Necromancer, besides, even without the Gift, he could already foresee Sherlock’s epic displeasure; so it was worth saving this option until his relationship with Dimmock completely went wrong, or Sherlock once again pissed him off with his experiments. Ahh, temptations, temptations.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally love this chap))) I think it show more about boys and their interactions with each other)) and also I like the whole scene here as well as a way to know more about this world
> 
> Thanks for reading and well)) waiting)))

The morgue was the last place he expected to spend his well-started day. The gray tiles, the scent of chlorine and formalin brought back memories of his student years, and not the most pleasant parts of them. He didn’t even immediately notice the small witch merging into the light gray wall behind her - due to her white robe and low-key appearance. It was almost not even surprising while in the presence of Sherlock Holmes, who always attracted the attention of others as soon as he just went somewhere. John strongly suspected he was ignored as well and constantly lost against the background of the dark mage, though this didn’t bother him at all.

Looking closer, John raised his eyebrows in surprise. Anyone would be surprised by the dissonance between appearance and Class, he was no exception. Though he had worked with Holmes for little less than a couple of months and managed to see and learn quite a bit. The witch, huddling against the wall and blushing with embarrassment, was undoubtedly a Necromancer. Nowadays, he couldn’t confuse their auras with anyone and it wasn’t even because of Mycroft Holmes or his sad past experiences.

John felt no rot or decay, although this Necromancer clearly constantly worked with the undead while on duty. Once again, he could see what unusual people surrounded the dark mage, and he too, was now in this circle, which only flattered. But it seemed that if his intuition didn’t let him down in such matters, what was happening now in this room had nothing to do with Classes or magic at all. Well, only if it wasn’t about the magic of love. John could hardly restrain himself from giggling foolishly, immediately earning a suspicious look from Sherlock, who, as usual, stood out in this pale kingdom as a big dark blotch.

Failing to deceive Sherlock with a hastened innocent expression, John could see he was still disappointed and angry, and not without reason. John’s communication with Dimmock had not given the desired results; the Inspector flatly refused to appear at the next crime scene, which meant John couldn’t get in, unlike Holmes. Personally, it didn’t seem so important to him, knowing that the dark mage would do just fine without him. Although he still had to do something with Dimmock. His indecision, cowardice and disgust could later seriously complicate their life, as, for example, now, when they were forced to go to the morgue instead of examining the crime scene.

And, of course, as usual, he had to take care of the social interactions himself; the body under the white sheet clearly interested Holmes more than communicating with the living. It was another reason why he didn’t even think to start being jealous of her for the dark mage.

“Hello, I’m John Watson, Sherlock’s partner. Healer.” The witch’s small warm palm almost disappeared in his hand; and John wondered if his magic would react to this Necromancer in the same way as to Holmes, but nothing happened, which was fine with him. Only after introducing himself and sorting through his head what he said, he was surprised to realize that he had first indicated his partnership with Holmes and not his Class. This hadn’t ever happened before, on the one hand, there was nothing special in this, but on the other, it turned out that unconsciously he already prioritized joint work with the other mage and not himself.

“Molly Hooper. Necromancer...” up close she seemed to him prettier, although still lusterless.

“Nice to meet you, Molly. I hope we’re not disturbing you?”

“Oh, that's alright, I'm used to it. Besides, I was looking forward to your visit. Inspector Lestrade warned me... However, I must confess, Sherlock didn’t say anything about you. How long have you been together?”

It was not quite the question he expected to hear from a stranger when first meeting them, although in some way he could understand her. He even felt a little sorry for her, no matter how brilliant Sherlock was, there were times, as John was personally able to see, he preferred not to see past his own nose especially when it came to feelings.

“For several months already. I'm still getting used to working with him, so I really hope for your help and support, Molly. You, yourself knows what it can be like.”

“Ahh… yes… Of course.”

“John!” an impatient shout reminded him that they had come here on business. He smiled at the witch and hastened to approach the dark mage, already bent over the body. From experience, he knew perfectly well that it was not worth keeping him waiting or being distracted, exacerbating Sherlock’s malcontent. Now he had to manage, somehow, to combine the two works, succeed on both and not lose face.

He really liked Sarah Sawyer, although she was far from Sherlock’s standards in terms of talent or eccentricity, he hoped that she would be able to gain his approval. Unfortunately, no matter how strange it may sound, without it he couldn’t have any relations with her, not even as colleagues. In fact, he wouldn’t be able to have any relations with any witch or mage, if they weren’t approved by the dark mage. John frowned, one would involuntarily get the impression that he had returned to about twenty-thirty years ago, when he was still living with his parents and had to look for their approval regarding new friends or each new passion. The comparison didn’t inspire and once again made him wonder what his life had become after meeting one particular dark mage.

“What do you say?”

“I liked her,” John said, blurting the first thing that came to mind, while all his thoughts were occupied by one pleasant, in all respects, witch and her potential as his future employer and object of Holmes' jealousy.

“What?” Sherlock stared at him with the unblinking gaze of his impossible eyes, pinning him into place. The chilling tone of the other was rather ominous; his straightforward plan might have worked, although John was truly ashamed that he was distracted, knowing how important any investigation was to Sherlock.

“Job! I liked the job. A very pleasant place with a clean and strong source,” John laughed awkwardly, hoping Holmes would not give any importance to his slip of the tongue. He often witnessed the possessive manners of the dark mage, and had therefore presumed about the possible competition in the person of the Healer Sawyer for his time and attention. Although, probably, it still wasn’t worth mentioning. For his own peace of mind. “Who is the victim?”

“Brian Lukis. A freelance journalist,” Sherlock replied, displeased, still looking at him suspiciously.

“How is he related to the late Mr. Wang Kun?”

“Both recently returned from China, and both flew there for work. Mr. Lukis wrote an article about rare artifacts; Wang Kun was on a business trip for the Exchange.”

The continued examination gave John nothing. Without a crime scene, he could not draw any conclusions. There was still hope for the Calling Ritual, but he sincerely did not understand how he could be useful now, and why it was worth tugging him here. Although it more than fit into his possessive theory about Holmes.

“What's with the body? Shall we carry out the ceremony? Ritual?” To get the conversation back on track wasn’t something difficult, albeit not always effective, but this time luck was on John's side, though he wasn’t honored with an answer. Instead, Holmes threw back the hem of his coat with a theatrical gesture and removed a small magnifying glass from his pocket.

“Molly, let's get started.”

“Oh, yes, yes! I, the Necromancer Molly Hooper, as the official representative of the Ministry, give permission to the mage Sherlock Holmes to participate in the ritual of Calling Souls. I take full responsibility.”

“I consent.”

John stepped aside so as not to get in the way, and stood so as to have the best viewing angle. After all, he was to see the Ministry Necromancer at work with his own eyes.

An intricate pentagram glowed on the tiled floor, drawing attention to beautiful curls and unfamiliar runes. Now what was happening truly began to resemble the ritual of Summoning Souls from a textbook, which he once somehow had accidentally flipped through. At the same time, Necromancer Hooper not only activated the pentagram under the table with the body, but also several more runes of mysterious purpose.

If he understood everything correctly, now the dark mage acted only in the role of an assistant. Unlike last time in the apartment of the late Mr. Wang Kun, there were no dark, lifelike tapes of ribbons, which he firmly associated with Holmes, just as there was no pressure of strength. John felt only faint discomfort, as if he had to sink into the depths, and now the water column pressed on him, but no more.

Molly drew runes in the air, and they either hovered over the body with a faint bluish glow, or silently scattered, as if hitting an invisible barrier, while Holmes silently watched her actions without criticizing or interfering.

Looking at the predatory profile, pale skin, dark hair, expensive suit, expensive shoes and graceful long fingers in blue latex gloves, John could not help but admit the other's attractiveness. And it wasn't just the looks. It seemed to him that he could look at all of this endlessly - Holmes was greatly transformed when at Work. There was no relaxation that he could see inside the walls of Baker Street, openness, childish discontent or joy, as if there was a completely different person in front of him, unfamiliar and dangerous.

As if overhearing his thoughts, Holmes turned and caught his eye. Unable to bear even a few seconds, John embarrassedly averted his eyes, trying to shake off the feeling that he was caught peeping. He shouldn't have been distracted, besides, the most interesting thing was just beginning to happen. The body on the table lifted and bent in an inconceivable arc, the cervical vertebrae cracked loudly, and the victim's head rolled to one side, so that lifeless, unseeing eyes stared at him again, causing a feeling of deja vu.

_ “This was done in the name of his coming”. _

A black flower with almost transparent petals blossomed familiarly over the body, spreading out in all directions to dissolve again in the air into black ash from the first awkward movement. The Necromancer Hooper cried out in surprise, but immediately pulled herself together. John didn’t know what went wrong, but after the distraction of the flower, the runes created by Molly also scattered, as well as the pentagram going out.

Another corpse and another obscure message. Well, their investigation really promised to be unforgettable.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello-hello))  
> Hope you all will like this chapter))))))

At first glance, the apartment looked like a battlefield, disorderly things, shifted tables and chairs, turned out boxes and haphazard piles of books. There were far too many books for such a small area, wherever John looked, books were strewn about or piled up, on the shelves, on the windowsill, on the floor, on any free surface - even the narrow, uncomfortable staircase that took them to the apartment was littered with all kinds of books. The living room in Baker Street on his very first visit, by comparison, was a model of order so far from the utter chaos reigning here. Following his moving and after spending several evenings cleaning, Holmes’ extensive collection, though still scattered throughout, was mostly safely migrated to the shelves or partially transformed into neat piles (1), so now the living room had a presentable and residential look. That could not be said about this place.

After much persuasion, ending with a clear threat from Sherlock, Dimmock finally agreed to accompany them to the crime scene. Therefore, after the hospital and the morgue, another place was added to the list of where John had managed to visit in one day. Moreover, here the purification ritual had not been carried out for several months.

Shrugging off the dark haze around him, John sat down in front of another heaping pile of books. After running his finger along the spines, he was once again convinced that the books collected here before him had no connection to each other. Perhaps a system was here, but it was imperceivable to him, nor did he feel any strong amulets or artifacts. In addition, the inept and carelessly finished spells added to the sloppy ligation of protective runes and more than clearly, spoke of the potential of the victim as a rather mediocre and weak mage. This meant that he could never have independently begun and finished the ritual left in the bedroom.

“Our killer is breaking in through the walls,” John muttered, displeased. He carefully examined all the locks on the doors and on the windows - nowhere were there any signs of burglary. With his limited experience, he could only assume that either those killed in both cases let their killer in themselves, which meant they knew him, or he got inside, and then disappeared, leaving no trace in an unknown new way.

The first thing that came to mind was a portal. John now knew that this was not only feasible at home, as Holmes had demonstrated, but it was also heavily energy and labor intensive. Here, except for the echoes of simple spells and the ritual performed, there was nothing, and the Agents would immediately figure out if too much magic was used, or if its nature was strange. So this option disappeared immediately, and here his theories dried up.

Two murders, two suicidal rituals, and two messages. All this led to unhappy conclusions and required a thorough investigation, which, judging by Holmes' mood, they should have been doing already.

Inspector Dimmock didn’t even try to hide his displeasure or misunderstanding of what was happening. His whole appearance more than eloquently said what he was thinking of both of them, and about the situation in general. John didn’t want to be tagged in his personal file for refusing to work with the appointed Inspector, but it seemed that everything was inexorably going in that direction.

“It's time to get rid of him.”

Sherlock halted in front of him, looming in his usual manner; the pale face looked even more displeased than the face of the young Inspector.

“What?... Sherlock, what do you mean?” John hissed, grabbing the dark mage by the sleeve and nervously looking around. He didn’t want any problems before the disciplinary commission - for Holmes, it would be normal to do something out of the ordinary and consider it acceptable.

“Obviously, this fool will continue to only get in the way.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean that you need to go into conflict. He eventually did agree to come.”

“He should have done it from the start.”

“Well, yes, but how will I find a new Inspector now, if Dimmock refuses to cooperate? And in such a short time? I don’t think it’s worth doing anything during the investigation.”

He only had one tactic left in reserve, but the most damning argument he had, he hadn’t wanted to use now, even if he could, but obviously his choices weren’t so rich, or rather he didn’t have any choice at all. Besides, it was necessary to act quickly before the young Inspector was cursed or worse.

“Please.”

He scarcely used this word while in communication with Sherlock, only on rare occasions, but each time has had a tremendous effect on the dark mage. His eyes glazed over, and his face became like a wax mask, as if he were disconnected from reality and for a moment, fell into a world known to him alone. However, this too also quickly passed, and Holmes agreed to everything that had been discussed before this sacramental word was spoken.

“Well, be it your way. But then don't say I didn't warn you. Let's go. I want you to take another look at the bedroom.”

John was ready to agree to anything, just to distract Holmes, so he resignedly followed him back into the dead man’s bedroom, without hope that even after a second examination he would see something new. He could, of course, ask Sherlock to share his findings and inferences, but he seemed to have already used up the entire supply of the dark mage’s goodwill for the day.

An unmade bed and a mess in the bedroom did not prevent the attacker from performing his ritual and successfully disguising him as suicide.

“Tell me your conclusions,” Holmes didn’t even try to make his order sound like a request.

John gritted his teeth and exhaled heavily. Neither visual inspection nor checking of activated spells gave him any clues. No matter how much he sought, he definitely saw neither suicide nor the ritual of sacrifice. The most logical thought was that this was a message, but even for a sophisticated message, the ritual was too intricate, and the tragedy that happened here was more like a punishment. He didn't know why he was thinking about it - just the first thing that came to mind when he looked at the runes used, and how and in what order they were drawn caused him to associate with an indicative punishment.

“What are you thinking now?”

Holmes suddenly appeared behind him and stood quite close, so that his breath touched John's hair, and when he bent lower, hot breath tickled John’s neck, causing an involuntary shiver.

“I...” John was not very fond of sharing his thoughts with a genius mage; more often than not, he turned out to be wrong, about which he was immediately informed. But Holmes constantly insisted on this, arguing that it helped him to think, and also that John needed to practice more.

“Your intuition is excellent, trust it more. Even if you are wrong, I am there to correct you.”

John turned around in surprise and drew his head back to make it easier to look into Sherlock’s eyes. Holmes did not praise him often, which was why the rare compliments from him were so valuable.

They stood very close to each other, and the dark mage didn’t even think to move away, as if his invasion of someone else’s personal space was something to take for granted for him. If you think so, it was. And if usually those to whom he approached so closely preferred to flee, John never gave up his position, preferring to watch and wait. 

“I don’t know how to explain it.” John furrowed his brows apologetically, “but it looks like they were guilty of something, and they were punished demonstratively.”

“Hmmm… Interesting.”

(1) Reference to the side story - "You and Me"


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second update this week))))  
> Enjoy)))

“What will be our next step?” John, as usual, had to adjust to Holmes' wide, quick stride to keep up.

“Black Lotus. We need to learn more about this sect and visit its head office,” Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to him. “And for that I need your immediate help.”

“Sure, of course.”

Their sudden stop in the middle of a busy street caused violent indignation amongst passers-by, who, however, as soon as they looked at the dark mage, immediately hurried back to their business. Late evening beckoned with the promise of warmth, which forced the inhabitants of the never sleeping megalopolis to pour out in a crowd to enjoy this rare phenomenon. And now he and Holmes had to make room on a narrow sidewalk so as not to be demolished by all this motley crowd. In the endless multicolored stream that went past them, the dark mage stood out sharply, not only in height, clothing and appearance, but also in his veiled aura, involuntarily attracting even more attention.

“Something else?”

“I've already checked the movements of the victims in the past few days. Immediately after returning to London, both visited Chinatown. Right where the Black Lotus is. The conclusion suggests itself.”

“Do you think they were connected with the smuggling of artifacts?” John nodded understandingly.

“I am sure about that. And one of them, most likely, stole what should not have been touched.”

“But why kill both?… Ahh. The killer didn’t know which was guilty?” 

“Exactly, John! You're making progress.”

There was nothing special about this conclusion, but the praise was still very pleasant to him. Today, the dark mage was unusually generous with compliments, even with the mood spoiled by Inspector Dimmock and the poorly progressing investigation.

“It’s so late already. Let's go home.” John rubbed his eyes wearily. The day had been eventful, and the next promised to be the same. He definitely needed to recuperate and mentally prepare. All kinds of cults and sects aroused in him a persistent hostility, although he intellectually understood why people looked for consolation in them.

Moreover, his family had a sad experience of dealing with such religious organizations. When his parents were alive, the Watson couple managed to spend a whole fortune on all sorts of fraudsters who promised them the salvation of the allegedly lost soul of their youngest daughter. While John was being shot at on the hot plains of Afghanistan, his sister fought her own battle against the prejudices of her own family. It wasn’t even surprising that it all ended with tinctures and elixirs, in which she saw her only salvation. He could frankly admit to himself that he had completely failed as an older brother. Therefore, although the somewhat obsessive care of Mycroft Holmes never caused him rejection or irritation, unlike Sherlock. For his part, he perfectly understood Holmes senior.

Deftly catching Sherlock's sleeve, who quickly stepped to the side of the road to catch a cab, he pulled him away from the immediately braked car.

“Let’s walk a little, if you don’t mind? It’s so rare when the weather spoils us with warmth.” John was a little embarrassed, he could have walked alone, but he and Sherlock never went out somewhere just like that, and not for the sake of business. He wanted to somehow correct this omission. If he thought about it, the dark mage rarely bothered himself with any kind of socialization, and John saw this as a chance to bring something new into his life, even if it was something so insignificant, perhaps even completely unnecessary to Holmes.

Instead of answering, Sherlock waved to the taxi driver, refusing his services, and silently stepped back into the stream of people, which involuntarily made John want to smile.

They did not talk about anything; they just walked alongside, and, as he strongly hoped, enjoyed each other's company. John didn’t know what Sherlock was thinking about, but it was unlikely that if something didn’t suit him, he would be silent. Personally, everything in this situation suited him. Although there were so many things that he would like to ask the dark mage. How did he meet Molly Hooper? How did Lestrade become his Inspector? Why did he have such a strained relationship with his brother? Had he ever been in love with someone? What was his very first case? Why exactly a consulting dark mage? There was a lot more that he wanted to know about Sherlock Holmes, but he did not dare to ask. Perhaps later, when they’ve worked and lived together for more than a couple of months.

“What would you like to ask me?” Holmes, as if overhearing his thoughts, asked.

The question caught John off guard. It was unlikely that he could somehow betray his interest, or rather, he didn’t think that it was possible. Although Sherlock had mentioned his expressive face more than once.

“If I do not like your question, I simply will not answer, so ask.”

He didn’t want to ruin the pleasant atmosphere between them with an uncomfortable topic, but he wouldn’t be himself if he hadn’t risked anything.

“As you already know, of my closest relatives, I only have a sister, with whom, moreover, I practically don’t communicate. But what about your family? I know of Mycroft, Are both your parents alive? Do you have any other brothers or sisters?”

They paused briefly, waiting for the green light to cross the road. If he decided to take the dark mage by the hand, or if Sherlock would suddenly do it instead of him, then this walk could even be counted as a date, a far cry from his previous encounters that he never kept around for long. But he did not have enough determination for such a thing, and when the green light came on, he wasn’t at all up to it. The stream of people gathered around them at the crossroads threatened to pick him up and split him from Holmes. John was worried, perhaps he still should have thought about how to inadvertently take the dark mage at least by the sleeve and keep him close to him, the reason was more than plausible.

The hand, falling confidently on his shoulder, of course, could only belong to Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly John was pulled and firmly pressed against the tall figure of the dark mage, who shielded him from both the curious glances that they were now drawing and from involuntary collisions with other passers-by. Walking beside Holmes was even better than holding hands with him, so they became even closer.

“Our parents are both alive. I'll introduce you to them someday,” No doubt, only to be heard, and not for some other reason, as John tried to assure himself, Sherlock leaned very close to him and pressed his lips to his ear. “I'm sure Mycroft has already reported you to them. It’s even surprising that Mummy still hasn’t called.”

Distracted by hot breath, John did not immediately comprehend what the dark mage had just told him. As soon as he started thinking about the people who could be the parents of such children as Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, the most unexpected images immediately began to pop up in his head.

“Oh, Gods, Christmas dinner in your family... No, no, I don't even want to imagine it.” 

“And not worth it, you will have the opportunity to survive it yourself.”

“Is that a threat?” John turned his head in the direction of Holmes, and if he had not deviated in time, their noses might have even collided.

“Mmmm, maybe.”

Their faces were so close that it would have been enough for him to just stretch a little forward to touch those full lips. He almost mustered up the courage to take the plunge when Holmes stopped abruptly and let him go, puzzling him and even coming off as slightly offensive. 

“You're tired, let's catch a taxi.”

Sighing a little in disappointment, John was forced to agree. He was truly tired, and no matter how pleasant the walk was, he could hardly feel his legs. Sherlock’s behavior was confusing and a little discouraging. And it was because of such actions that John did not know how he should still perceive their relationship.


	14. Chapter 14

Inspector Dimmock was looking at him intently across the table, and John couldn't shake the feeling that he was openly feared. It was a strange feeling, unfamiliar to him, especially when the conversation took place within the walls of a bright office and over a cup of fragrant tea.

“Mr. Holmes is not going to suddenly appear again and interrupt our conversation?” The mage, nervous in front of him, asked directly. His aura went ugly with brown ripples, making John want to turn away and look anywhere else, just not at those flashing blisters, looking more like scars.

“I am not aware of his plans, but I think that shouldn’t happen. Therefore, we can calmly discuss what happened, what do you say?”

“… Yes. Yes. You don't think Mr. Holmes was serious in his threats, do you?”

Ah, well, of course, how he could forget. John closed his eyes for a moment. The reputation of a dark mage sometimes played into their hands, often helping in investigations, but not in moments like this. He did not want to lie, but the situation was rather delicate, and not in his favor, so he decided to soothe his temporary Inspector a little. 

“I don’t think you need to be afraid of anything.”

“Good! I thought so, but decided to play it safe. You know him better, though.”

Having calmed the young mage, John decided to move on to the pressing issue, for which he asked to have this meeting. Conflict and misunderstanding with his own Inspector could cost him dearly in the future, so he decided to dot the I's as quickly as possible.

“I will not beat around the bush - I will have only one request for you. Remain my Inspector for the duration of this investigation, and when it is closed, you will have the right to do as you see fit,” John put his unfinished cup back on the saucer and leaned back in his chair. It was not easy for him to find some free time, torn between the incessant instructions and orders of Sherlock, so he certainly expected a lot from this conversation. John voiced his wish, now it was up to the young Inspector, who was not stupid at all, despite his failures.

“I agree.”

“I am glad that we were able to find a solution. Thanks.”

The pleasant face expressed only awkwardness, John himself was a little uncomfortable, so saying a crumpled goodbye, he hastened to return to Baker Street, to the familiar chaos, piles of books, a comfortable sagging chair by the fireplace and a dark mage dissatisfied with the course of the investigation.

The evening did not promise to be interesting, but after an eventful day, running around half of London on Holmes’ errands, he only wanted a little peace. He was tired of the abundance of alien magic and spells, and communication with officials and Agents of the Ministry of Magic, who, even to the most patient person, which he never considered himself, could spoil his karma. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock shoved all of this tedious but necessary routines onto him as his partner. Sometimes, in such cases, he involuntarily even had suspicions that the dark mage had drawn him into his Work, so as not to do something like this himself. However, such thoughts didn’t linger in his mind for a long time, supplanted as they were by other pressing matters.

At home awaited an instant dinner, a purification ritual that could not be postponed any further, and an entertaining reading of the new forum on dreams he found on the Internet. And this, of course, was dependent on the event that Holmes did not decide, in his usual unpredictable manner, to make his own adjustments to his plans, and, seemingly, he would have to once again postpone the purification for an unclear time. His phone display glowed cheerfully with a short message from his partner.

_ Hurry. SH. _

Why it was necessary to sign each message, when John knew who it was from even without it, was still a mystery to him. Rejoicing that he at least managed to talk to Inspector Dimmock without interference, John went down to the subway and joined the motley stream of people.

He never really liked the subway, but this method of travel was much cheaper than cabs, so when he was without Holmes, he always tried to save money. John did not like to go underground, each time involuntarily recalling his awakening in the shaman's dark dugout, which looked more and more like a grave. And now, even after so much time, he couldn’t help but think that he was burying himself alive, voluntarily going down the convenient steps directly to the turnstiles. And it didn't matter that there was metal, stone and other people around him - the sensations did not change.

Sitting in the faintly swaying carriage, under the light of the bright lamps, John unseeingly scanned the faces of his random fellow travelers and the bright spots of advertising posters, and tried to find the familiar yellow signs on the worn seats and walls covered with advertisements. In the mishmash of colors and text, it was almost impossible to catch on to something, so he soon abandoned this venture and simply closed his eyes, giving them a rest.

As he stepped out of the subway, John breathed in relief in the evening London air, filled with the aromas of gasoline, damp asphalt and deep-fried dough from a nearby food stand. He had to walk a couple more blocks to Baker Street, but he decided to count this walk as part of his exercise that he promised himself to do in order to somehow restore his physical form that he had lost during his periods of illness, recovery, and during his return to a peaceful life. 

Loud voices were heard while climbing the stairs. It didn't sound like a new client, Sherlock was too annoyed. Even without seeing the dark mage in front of him, John could perfectly imagine frowning eyebrows, and coldly sparking eyes, and displeased pursed lips. Few people dared to argue with Holmes when he was out of sorts, and this list included only a few people, one of whom he certainly would not want to see now.

“Oh, Greg, good evening.” Opening the door and finding a familiar figure in a coat greeted John and he took a breath of relief. To end this day by communicating with both Holmes brothers at once was definitely not a pleasant pastime for him. Although he never had the opportunity to thank the Necromancer for his useful and timely gift, he still had no desire to see him.

“John! Finally. I really thought I couldn't wait. Beer?”

Inspector Gregory Lestrade became not only his involuntary ally in difficult tasks such as looking after Holmes, but also a good friend. Having lost almost all his friends after signing contract with the army, and then losing contact with his army friends after going to civilian life when wounded, John found himself in a situation where he even had no one to drink with. Mike Stamford was almost always busy with students or family. Sherlock could not be lured into the bar even by voluntary consent to participate in one of his strange experiments. After one single but highly memorable trip with a dark mage to his favorite pub, John once and for all vowed not to take him somewhere where he was known or where he would like to return to at least once.

Therefore, the appearance of Inspector Lestrade in his life was more than ever welcome. He, in turn, wishing to take a break from work and colleagues, also regularly called on him for a pint out. This gave them a great reason to complain to each other about one obnoxious dark mage and not be overheard. Though, as John strongly suspected, Sherlock knew without being there that they were discussing him.

“Sure. Oh yes. Sherlock, why did you need me?”

“Borrow the Inspector to do what you usually do when you meet. I need peace and quiet.”

And just like that, with a timely suggestion from Holmes, his plans for dinner and company that evening changed dramatically.


	15. Chapter 15

A small bookstore en route to his new place of work drew in John not only with an impressive vintage sign and sale announcement, but also the familiar bright yellow mark on the window. On buildings, on the sidewalk underfoot, on fences and on billboards, when less often, when more often, he constantly came across such arts. He even almost stopped paying attention to them, they had become so familiar. But sometimes, as, for example, now, this uncomplicated appeal still found a response, and John could no longer pass by.

Quickly calculating in his head that he had some time left before the start of his first day at work, he decisively dived into a semi-dark room to get into the realm of old wood, leather, paper and dust. The sleepy salesman behind the counter at his question about the sale, waved him somewhere to the corner and immediately lost interest in him, so John had to look for the place directed in such an obscure way on his own.

He couldn’t explain why the temptation to go into this particular bookstore or walk up to the corner where the shabby books and textbooks at bargain prices were collected. But he had the steadfast impression that he was being led, as if an unknown hand was pulling to come up and leaf through the old volumes and brochures left by someone. Even in such heaps, one could find a real treasure, and with hope, ran his fingers along the old spines or shifting one book to another to get to the lowest ones.

And, it seemed, he already knew why he dropped in here this morning, in between the pages of an old textbook on Basic Theory of Dreams lay an unremarkable leaflet - against a black background, plain text advertised courses for aspiring Dreamers or those who simply wanted to learn how to read dreams. No contact information, except for the address was provided, while somewhat embarrassing, it still didn’t seem suspicious to him. Many Temples, unlike schools or private institutions, did this; he only had to check the address and make sure that the courses were indeed held at the Temple. And maybe they were even free, if not mentioned otherwise.

John rightly decided that it was fate, the ritual of reading the runes carried out a few months ago not only added unnecessary problems for him, but it also opened up new opportunities. Which, in addition, to the rare strange dreams, he hadn’t even been able to use properly. Perhaps he wasn’t destined to enter the class of Seers and Oracles, and wasn’t particularly striving to be there; but if he really had a gift and a predisposition to any subclass of the Calling, then it was sin not to take advantage of the opening prospects. Moreover, he had prophetic dreams, although he couldn’t figure them out. His visions might not mean anything, but it was difficult for him to judge them without the necessary knowledge and experience. It meant that he needed outside help, which he, apparently, could, if so desired, easily and simply get, if he believed what was written so on a leaflet forgotten by someone in a textbook.

Deciding to take a textbook with him, John went to the checkout to pay and at least stir up the seller, who was not particularly happy with such an early buyer in his face.

With a thin book in hand and in high spirits from such a successful purchase, John hurried to the hospital. His first day on the job didn't promise to be busy or difficult, but it didn't matter. He no longer remembered the last time he could legally, without looking back at the Agents of the Ministry, apply his knowledge and skills in practice. And even now if it could be something simple in the form of treating a cold or flu, he had managed to miss even such simple tasks desperately.

With the thin book in hand, and in high spirits from such a successful purchase, John hurried to the hospital. His first day on the job didn’t promise to be busy or difficult, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t even remember the last time he could legally, without looking back in wariness at the Agents of the Ministry, apply his knowledge and skills in practice. And thus far, even if it was something simple in form, such as treating a cold or flu, he had indeed managed to miss such simple tasks desperately.

“Good morning, Healer Watson.”

“Good morning, Healer Sawyer. When we’re alone, I’d rather you call me John, and I you, Sarah. Do you mind?” John stepped closer to the witch, who had left the office to meet him, and leaned forward a little. Even with his short stature, he knew how to make himself look confident through acting like this. Of course, compared to Sherlock, who easily and professionally succeeded in invading someone else’s personal space, he was quite far away from such skills, nor did he pursue his goal to embarrass. But with such slight aggressive behavior, as he knew from personal experience, he could more than eloquently demonstrate his interest. When Sherlock did that, he involuntarily took it that way.

“Ok John.”

Even after a few days, Sarah Sawyer hadn’t lost her charm, though after their last meeting and the several intense days that followed, he almost didn’t have time to even just remember or think about her. This realization was a little upsetting, but now he had the opportunity to make up for lost time in the peace and quiet.

Looking around quickly in disbelief, there was still nothing suspicious around. No certain dark mage in a hurry to appear in front of him out of nowhere just as soon as he thought about Miss Sawyer, so he breathed out in relief, returning his attention to his interlocutor.

“What do you have here?” Sarah nodded at his hands, where he still held the purchased textbook.

“A Textbook on Dreams. Need to tighten up on the basics.”

“Oh, do you have a Gift?” The witch's surprise pleasantly caressed the ear.

“It turns out to be.”

“It's amazing. You are full of talent, as I can see.”

“I hope I can continue to surprise you.”

“Then let's get started. First, I'll show you your workplace.”

The allocated office in the east wing on the ground floor, though small, was bright and homely. From the former owner, lovely trinkets, and even a couple of plants remained. It was apparent someone took great care. The small wardrobe, desk, visitor’s chair, and couch behind the curtain were far from new, but he still liked the worn chair, remarkably comfortable to sit in. He liked, too, the simple rune pattern on the walls and floor, and even the curtains on the window

“How do you find it?”

“I like everything.”

A white robe waited for him in the closet, and for a moment, his breath caught from the overabundance of feelings as soon as he touched the starched fabric. Gods, how he had missed it. If he thought about it, in his army days, he had, most of all, missed the uniform of the Healers. Putting on the robe, he not only began to feel better, like nothing else, it helped him to tune in to the right mood and get rid of everything extraneous from his head, in order to focus on treating patients.

“Now you can look into the restroom. True, you will have to get to know the in-house Healers and nurses along the way, but we will definitely organize a welcome party. Healers of your level don't often come to work with us, John.”

“Thanks for the praise, I hope I won’t have a reason to disappoint you… Though I am worried that unexpected calls from the Ministry won’t help with that.” There was no point in hiding it, moreover, during his interview, he’d already mentioned his other job. He only needed to prove himself to be an irreplaceable specialist so he would be forgiven for regular days off and occasionally skipping shifts.

“We will see.”

John decided that even this witch's laugh was pleasant.

“I think at twelve you can start reception already. Just a couple of hours to get into the regime. How do you like this plan?”

“Great plan. Especially if you keep me company, at least for a little while.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears)  
> sorry for delay - real life and other stuff

“Boys! Hey!”

The call distracted John from eating his breakfast, turning his head towards the door, he waited with anticipation for the appearance of the elderly witch. Though she never tired of reminding them that she was not their housekeeper, she was still constantly indulging them in homemade food and pastries. Now, John involuntarily sniffed, wondering what she could be bringing this time. 

“In the kitchen!”

Not hearing the characteristic clink of dishes or the uncomplicated melody which Mrs. Hudson usually liked to cook with, the likelihood of getting something homemade and tasty for his morning tea rapidly dwindled to zero, unless the elderly witch had gone to the store early this morning. But he didn’t remember hearing the front door slamming downstairs, meaning no one had come in or out. Sighing sadly, John knew that while Holmes’ deductive method was extremely useful, he, personally, would rather not bother with any unnecessary thoughts. One could only wonder how the dark mage managed to do this all the time.

It wasn’t surprising he had a complex, difficult character - living, while seeing constantly, analyzing every little thing and drawing conclusions, was rather tiring. Besides, knowing everything at once and in advance was also quite boring. As soon as one realized and accepted this simple fact, both Holmes’ behavior and his attitude towards people and to life immediately became clear. In his fight against the incessant boredom, the dark mage grabbed every and any opportunity to distract himself and occupy his active mind.

“John, late last night a courier delivered an envelope for you and Sherlock, but I didn't bother you. If it was something urgent, there would have been a special note. Although, judging by the return address, this may turn out to be something important. Usually Sherlock throws away all the letters from MinMag (1), but your name is also there.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I'll take a look. Tea?”

“No thanks, dear. Where is Sherlock?”

John looked out into the living room, the skull on the mantelpiece was barely glowing with the familiar blue flame. But it still didn’t try to attract any attention or start a conversation, which meant the dark mage most likely wasn’t in the bedroom, as he first suggested when he went downstairs for breakfast. No, he was in one of his pockets.

“I think he went out to the morgue. Or wherever. The case we’re busy with now interested him. You know how he can be.”

“Yes Yes. These strange murders. We’ve had few past ritual sacrifices, so now there are new ones. Do you think this is another dragon? Or some other creature?”

“Creature? Being?” Startled, almost choking on his tea, John hadn’t even thought about that possibility, but he should have, given his past experience.

“Well, for example, a demon or an ifrit. I met a couple once, I must say, it was such an unpleasant communication.”

Interested in the words of the elderly witch, he listened to her, while the heavy envelope with the coat of arms of the Ministry of Magic beckoned him to look inside. But the strange, inadvertently dropped words once again reminded him that the woman scurrying around in their kitchen was an unusual witch, and the envelope could certainly wait a little longer. He already had a good guess about the nature of the message lying inside.

Mrs. Hudson was far more interesting to him now, than what the Ministry wanted to tell him and Sherlock. Firstly, few people could endure Holmes and his behavior for so long, John considered himself a rare exception, and thus confirming the rule. Secondly, despite her fading aura, he could easily read it, but even so, he still couldn’t identify her Class. Now, it was somehow embarrassing to ask about it, especially after so many months of acquaintance, and Holmes, only smiling mysteriously at all of his questions, and in his usual imperative manner, advised him to think with his own head, to apply his deductive method. John had even tried to do it a couple of times, but each time, he suffered a crushing defeat, though he decided not to give up until the last. And as a last resort, he could always repent, apologize, and ask directly.

The elderly witch was definitely not a Healer or a Necromancer, at one time he thought about the class of Oracles and Seers, but that wasn’t confirmed. He hardly believed that she could even be a Battlemage in her youth, like Lestrade or most of the Ministry Agents. He was sure he had definitely heard that her late husband was a dark mage though. As a Healer, he encountered a wide variety of mages, but when reading someone else’s aura, he had never thought to associate a particular Class to the color and intensity of the spread of an aura. It didn’t matter to his work, and he certainly didn’t have enough time to satisfy his simple curiosity. Likewise, in addition to her using the elementary everyday spells, John had never seen the elderly witch conjure, making it even more difficult for him to recognize her belonging to a Class, thus it remained a mystery to him. And the cause of awful curiosity. 

“... such a mess. Though your appearance, John, has become much better… By the way, the recipe you gave me helps a lot. Thank you, John. It is so rare to meet a good Healer now.”

“You're welcome, Mrs. Hudson.”

Distracted by his thoughts, he missed part of the conversation, and hurried to hide his preoccupation under the guise of helping in cleaning. No matter how hard he tried to win a place in the kitchen from Holmes’ numerous experiments, he succeeded with only varying degrees of success. As soon as he dropped his guard, even for a little while, mysterious gurgling flasks, sealed bottles with unclear contents, bottles with suspicious-looking powders and ingredients, runes and pentagrams applied with chalk or ink appeared on all of the free surfaces. And the argument that the kitchen was actually needed in order to cook and eat food passed by Holmes’ ears, no matter how much John reminded him of it.

Clearly and obviously accustomed to this kind of state of the apartments rented by the dark mage, the elderly witch didn’t even blink at the thickened blood in the cups or at the human teeth. Even the eyeballs in the microwave didn’t bother her. And when their little cleaning was over, she just cheerfully said goodbye to him and went down to her place, leaving him alone with the sealed message and his own thoughts.

There was no longer any point in delaying the inevitable, so John, resolutely picking up the envelope in his hands, sat down in his favorite chair by the fireplace, in order to familiarize himself in the peace and quiet, with what the Ministry wanted from Holmes and himself.

The text on the white paper with the official stamp wasn’t at all what he expected. Carefully tearing the edge and dumping the stack of sheets into his lap, he first thought that there were too many of them for a simple notification of a warning in connection with a violation of the rules for working with the appointed temporary Inspector. He couldn’t even imagine that the date of Holmes’ disciplinary commission would be appointed so unexpectedly. What became even more surprising for him was the fact that he too, was summoned to the commission along with Holmes, which on the one hand was only logical - they were partners, and on the other hand - puzzled. He didn’t quite understand why he was expected to be one of the defendants, and not a witness.

(1) MinMag - respectively, the Ministry of Magic.


	17. Chapter 17

Looking at his only suit, hanging lonely in the closet between T-shirts and sweaters, John could only sigh dejectedly. He had even a specially purchased shirt that went well with the dark brown corduroy fabric. True, so whatever he didn’t choose from his meager wardrobe, it all was the same - in the presence of Sherlock, only a sad fate to look like a poor relative awaited him. Though he saw no point in dressing up for a commission; his task was definitely not to amaze anyone with his appearance. He assigned this role to his partner, whose reckless behavior was the reason for receiving a summons for a hearing at the Ministry.

After a short day shift, a tedious subway ride, and a walk through the busy streets of London, he was glad to get back to Baker Street as soon as possible, despite the unusually busy Holmes. He’d already managed to change into the, of course, perfectly fitting suit, having parted with the pajama pants and stretched T-shirt, now nervously pacing around their living room, reminiscent of an animal driven into a cage. In John’s eyes, he compared the dark mage to a lean, black feline though he wouldn’t ever have dared to tell him that to his face.

“Why so long?” Sherlock’s discontent came through not only in a cool tone, but in every gesture. He was quite taken aback by such a greeting.

“What happened?” He looked around attentively, but didn’t notice any suspicious experiments or echoes from dubious spells, meaning it was Holmes, himself. Even the skull on the mantel was silent, though as soon as John crossed the threshold, he blazed cheerfully with blue light, attracting attention.

“The walk from the clinic to the metro takes about seven to ten minutes, even with a leisurely pace. You then still spend about twenty minutes to get to the desired station, and roughly fifteen more to Baker Street’s door, if you didn’t need to go up the road to Tesco. I don’t understand how you stand it, just take a taxi, I’ll pay all the costs. There aren’t any packages, so you haven’t gone anywhere. So what could have delayed you?”

“Um,” John glanced at his watch, figuring out his route in his mind and squinted at Sherlock. This time, the reason for his surprise was not admiration, but bewilderment. He had thought, and decided, to omit nothing, up until the part where Holmes had offered to pay his travel expenses. He wasn’t ready to raise this particular topic, and now wasn’t the right time. “Are you unhappy now that I am ten minutes late according to your calculations?”

“There is a trace of brick chips on your right leg, as well as a little dust on the elbow and sleeve. You were pushed hard while walking.”

He stopped right in front of him, blocking out more than just the entire room. His tall figure, pale face framed by dark hair, now illuminated by the daylight penetrating through the window, as usual, pushed out of his field of vision, the piles of books, the table littered with papers, newspapers, and books, the walls decorated with runes, artifacts, and pentagrams, the fireplace, and the sagging sofa. There was no longer a luminous stream of magic or dark suspension - everything faded into the background, grew dim, and blurred. John looked and saw only Sherlock Holmes.

He never liked to look at the auras of dark mages or Necromancers, they, without exception, were ink stains, occasionally tainted with colorful splashes. The aura of the dark mage standing in front of him was not only familiar to him, he’d had time to get used to the rare red flashes, and to the ash-gray cocoon, behind which Holmes had skillfully hid himself from others when he needed to be lost in the crowd.

“We are investigating a difficult case, and you are being exceedingly careless. I know that you can take care of yourself, I have witnessed this more than once, but still, it is worth doubling your vigilance.”

Surprised, and disturbed by this unexpected concern, John knew and had time to appreciate how much Holmes valued him, but he was still amazed every time. 

"Is there something I should know about?"

“No. I don’t think it’s important now.”

“Sherlock?”

When he was walking along a busy street, he had been shoved hard by a stranger, who without even apologizing, quickly disappeared. John did not even have time to be indignant, he himself had to apologize to a girl, whom he unwillingly hurt trying to maintain balance after the push. So there were traces of brickwork on his sleeve and trouser leg, which he was not lucky to hit as a result. But he still saw nothing special about what had happened.

“Sherlock, I understand you’re worried. If something suspicious happens, or something attracts my attention, I will most definitely tell you.” He pursed his lips, and tilted his head a little to one side. If Holmes truly managed to make a study of him, as he’d told him about it more than once during the time that they were partners and living together, then he should know perfectly well what this gesture meant.

“We have an appointment at three, hurry up, change your clothes.” The dark mage promptly got his bearings in this situation, in which he was more than ever glad about. Starting a quarrel wasn’t part of his plans for this particular day, and in principle, it wasn’t ever part of his plans, but after entering into an unexpected-in-every-sense partnership with a consulting dark mage, he once and for all swore not to assert something with one hundred percent certainty. 

Losing his appetite after their short talk, he went up to his room, and, opening the closet, spent a few minutes contemplating its contents. His only suit, with a specially chosen, and purchased, shirt for him, were the only logical choices for the upcoming meeting, though he still would have preferred his usual jumper and jeans.

“I'm ready,” John pulled back the bottom of his jacket and shrugged uncertainly. He even tied a tie, although he could not stand them, and now and then his hands reached for this narrow piece of fabric to loosen or tighten the knot, as if he could not decide how he was more comfortable. John really couldn't make up his mind. 

“Ready.”

Pulling back the bottom of his jacket, and shrugging in uncertainty, even tying a tie, though he couldn’t stand them, now and then reaching for the narrow piece of fabric to loosen or tighten the knot, indecisive on how he was more comfortable, John genuinely couldn’t make up his mind.

“Okay. Let's go.”

After checking for his wallet, keys and notebook, John obediently followed Holmes, who had donned his favorite coat, though it was warm outside. Even in stuffy rooms, the dark mage rarely parted with a jacket or scarf, and his hands almost always remained cold. As a Healer and in his practice, faced with dark mages, he knew perfectly well why this happened (1), and living together with one once again strengthened John in his observations and conclusions.

The street to one of the Ministry buildings, in what, John decided, was supposed to take place the first and introductory hearing, was short-lived. The cab braked smoothly, and came to a stop at a graceful, carved gate with guards on display. The sweep of the driveway, neatly trimmed grass, and well-groomed flowerbeds, of which John knew little, but could still appreciate something visually and aesthetically beautiful, suggested status, wealth, and position in society. The building itself, as well as the interior decoration, was also significantly different from any Department of the Ministry which he had ever happened to visit. High ceilings, spacious halls and corridors, marble, granite, and wood trim, intricate carvings, wide staircases with twisted railings, and high monolithic columns - the eye rejoiced wherever John looked. Even the magic was unusual here.

Magic, here, was calm, measured and viscous, like wild honey. It softly enveloped and flowed past, giving the impression of something unshakable. John had already felt something similar, judging by the familiar sensations, but it was not a divine artifact, but a classical and very ancient Source. In all his life, he had never been in a place even remotely similar to this. Although, judging by the bored expression on Holmes' face, such places were something familiar and commonplace to him.

“Sherlock, where are we?” Afraid to break the silence here, whispered John, grabbing Holmes by the sleeve of his coat and pulling him towards him.

“You will understand everything yourself.”

Noticing a beautiful familiar witch from afar, John sensed something was wrong, and he was indeed right. The Necromancer Mycroft Holmes was waiting for them in a bright, spacious office behind a massive high door, at which they were kindly pointed to with a thin finger with a bright red manicure.

(1) - The bodies of dark mages spend several times more energy to maintain life than other mages, so their body temperature, as a rule, is slightly lower than usual. And also they always have cold hands and feet, which are associated with poor blood circulation in the body and a heavy load on the heart due to the specifics of the magic and spells with which they work most.


	18. Chapter 18

“John, Sherlock, glad you took the time to come. Make yourselves comfortable.”

"Mycroft," John greeted the Necromancer politely; unlike Sherlock, he still worried about the generally accepted norms of decency, besides, he was a little shy in front of Holmes senior, and he wasn’t even ashamed to admit it.

The Necromancer Mycroft Holmes, whatever he would invariably answer to, to the question about his position in the Ministry, couldn’t just be a minor official in the Transport Department. But John still had to nod and agree with the wording, no matter how curious he was. And now he knew for sure that Holmes senior had borrowed someone's office to meet with them.

The light walls, soft, light sofas, and light furniture didn’t align with the Necromancer, who, even in clothes, clearly preferred only the darker tones. Not to mention, the magic spilling into the room was alien to any dark mage. The office currently occupied by Mycroft Holmes did not correlate with him at all; therefore, the conclusion about the identity of the owner of the office was obvious.

Sherlock calmly sat down directly opposite his brother and froze in his usual manner, folding his hands under his chin in prayer. And while both Holmes were busy with their silent dialogue, glancing at each other, no matter how amusing it was to watch them from the side, John chose not to waste time in vain and carefully looked around. 

Under his feet, as soon as he moved just a little, faint flashes scattered. The crystal-encrusted floor reacted to his slightest movement, glowing and shimmering. Out of curiosity, he pressed his foot down lightly, and for his efforts, golden sparks flew in all directions, running over the beautiful pattern of curls and going out to somewhere under the table near the window. He could hardly restrain himself from repeating it again, so fascinating was the process. Imagining how beautiful it would be to dance on such a floor, he was immediately drawn to take a few more steps. Imperceptibly looking around, he nevertheless stepped several times to the side and forward, imitating the dance steps he had once learned a long time ago for a prom, all in order to not lose face in front of his then girlfriend, Winona Siment. Though the movements from that time were long forgotten, he clearly remembered the feelings of aching joy, love, and a thin, girlish waist under his palms. And now, watching the cheerful golden sparks, he could only recall that carefree time with nostalgia.

Crystals usually weren’t supposed to react like that to the magic passing through people, or he clearly lacked knowledge, because this amazing floor didn’t react to either Holmes in any way, only to him; he definitely saw that. John wandered around in circles a little more, involuntarily repeating the simple inlay pattern and listening to his inner feelings. If asked to describe what he was experiencing, the only close comparison he could give was that of bathing in sunlight.

The gazes sliding down his neck and arms were like tangible touches. He, of course, immediately felt them, but pretended he suddenly became terribly interested in the portrait of some elderly man who so successfully appeared right in front of him on the wall. It didn’t help much; John could still feel two pairs of unblinking eyes watching him with interest.

To cope with the awkwardness, he hurried to sit next to Sherlock, finally taking a part in the conversation. Making sure that neither of the brothers were in a hurry to explain anything to him, John decided to take the initiative into his own hands.

“I didn't expect you to be our Commissioner, Mycroft.”

“Moreover, you can forget about this commission altogether,” Sherlock informed him coolly, switching back to his brother sitting opposite.

“Um?” John, with bewilderment and interest, looked from one Holmes to another, “What does he mean?”

“Exactly what you thought, dear John. The issue with the commission has already been resolved, you no longer need to worry about it.”

“Okay… Ah, thanks. And thank you for the gift, too.” He rubbed the earring out of habit and smiled, “I apologize for not thanking you earlier, there was no suitable opportunity.”

“Nothing wrong. It's wonderful that Sherlock has someone who is not devoid of manners.” This remark, of course, was directed at Sherlock, who, as always, with a calm air, ignored what wasn’t interesting to him. “You're welcome, John.”

If he distracted the Necromancer’s attention towards himself, it would at least slightly lift Sherlock’s mood, but it seemed their leisured conversation had him frowning even more. One got the impression that with a little bit more time being around the dark mage, a cloud of discontent would begin to creep, as gloomy as Sherlock himself was now. It was so childish, John couldn't resist. It would be a real sin on his part not to take advantage of this opportunity. What was happening now began to amuse him a little. He didn't like playing with words or trying to sound smarter than he was by playing mind games, but sometimes, like now, he couldn't help it. Both brothers could be teased on occasion, but he would never have enough courage for more.

“I didn’t know that an insignificant position in the Ministry gave such opportunities and powers,” John remarked with an innocent smile. “Amazing.”

Satisfied at last, with an indignant expression on one's face, and on the other, a slightly mocking one, John relaxed and settled himself more comfortably on the soft light sofa.

A small table set for tea rolled into the suddenly opened door. The witch, who called herself Anthea the last time they met, calmly pushed in front of her their lunch if judging by the time and the appetizers presented. The legs on the high stiletto heels clicked rhythmically, but not one crystal came to life. Bursting with curiosity, but not daring to ask anything, as John did not want to present himself as an uneducated redneck, even more so in the presence of a beautiful woman. Therefore he only had to admire her rounded shape, accentuated successfully by a narrow skirt and fitted jacket.

He unwittingly drew himself up and offered his help, for which he was rewarded with the glances of three imperturbable pairs of eyes. However, he was politely refused, receiving a fragrant cup of tea, smoothing the impression that he was the main dish at this lunch. Both the perfectly brewed tea and the fresh biscuits were excellent, he even slipped a few to Sherlock, still sitting there pretending to be a displeased statue.

“John, how do you like your new job? Or it would be more correct to say part-time job.”

“Thank you, I like everything,” he was still waiting for the social courtesy accepted at such meetings, and Holmes senior did not disappoint.

“Is Sherlock bothering you? Now that you have less time you can devote only to him, and he can be such an owner.”

Nodding in agreement, though he stopped himself immediately, as much as he was outraged by Sherlock’s behavior, who hadn’t bothered to warn him about anything, he was still his partner, and now he could safely admit it, a friend. In addition, John was well aware of the strained relationship between the brothers.

“Not at all. Although I haven't found the right rhythm yet, I think we can handle it all.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for such late update - real life is so real))))
> 
> Hope you will enjoy this chap)))
> 
> and I ahave really great news - [ ayzaria08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayzaria08) said "Yes" to editing my great (yes, I'm not modest, I just LOVE this work XDXD) fic "Mosaic" with Moran\Watson paring))))

As soon as he, following the signs and checking the map on his phone, was on the right street, leaned in surprise against the wall of some shop selling souvenirs and spices. The closer he got to the head office of the Black Lotus sect officially registered in England, the more uncomfortable he became. Around him, wherever he looked, delicate black flowers bloomed - on the walls, under his feet. They hung in clusters from lamp posts, and ropes with flags and banners stretched from house to house. He’d already become a witness of how, from the slightest touch, these graceful illusions crumbled into black ash. Now, it was all the same, repeating right before his eyes, with the only difference being that in place of the crumbling flowers, new ones bloomed immediately, as if nothing had happened.

Looking around uncertainly, he reached out and caught several circles of bright confetti in his palm. Withal to the black ash, a red suspension fell and whirled around him, more of a bloody rain, of course the comparison would be complete only if there was water instead of paper, but even so, he couldn’t get rid of such unpleasant associations. 

People dusted with red slowly walked past him, their gray expressionless faces merged, for him, into one continuous and blurred stream of despondency, so it was impossible to even make out the mixture of races, ages, and sex. This picture was both equally frightening and mesmerizing. Against the backdrop of bright red and yellow paper lanterns, black and gold hieroglyphs, the signs and inscriptions of the neighborhoods of London belonging to the Chinese diaspora, all these people seemed just a kind of gray shapeless mass, devoid of purpose and desires. He could be wrong in his impression, but as a Healer, who had seen a great deal of mental illnesses in his practice, he could still distinguish the main signs.

No one grabbed him by hand, but he still felt out of place, occasionally bumping into someone, and out of habit, apologizing. Once again dodging a collision with an elderly man walking mindlessly somewhere in an incomprehensible direction, John decided it was time to start the main part of the assignment he received from Sherlock. The longer he remained in the street among all these people, the more it began to seem to him that he was being haunted by other people’s greedy looks. 

Even if not knowing the road, an uncomplicated black sign over the entrance to the most ordinary building among the many similar ones on this street would still orient him. Once on the floor in the dark foyer, he was greeted by a rather pretty witch, and after a series of questions, following the signs, he went into the lecture hall. He had been fortunate enough to be in for a newcomers meeting, due to start in about an hour, so he had plenty of time to both look around and take a seat in the back row.

At his arrival, the hall was already one third full, and people kept coming and coming. Men, women, old people, and adolescents, whole families seeking salvation and answers, silently sat around, not even talking to each other.

Looking around in curiosity, he shouldn’t have been surprised that amidst such a public group there was always someone who stood out even more than he for his interest in everything that happened. A girl with an Asian appearance immediately attracted his attention as soon as he crossed the threshold of the spacious conference room. There was something wrong about her, like he was looking at a distorted reflection. He too, probably also looked strange among all these people who came for fake revelations, but without the opportunity to look at himself from the outside, he could only make assumptions based on his feelings. All he had left was being glad that Sherlock wasn’t there; he was even too afraid of imagining how Holmes’ appearance here would end. At the least, as a disaster. That is, he would exactly look like a black sheep here. Or more correctly, a black raven. Imagining Holmes sitting next to him, John hastened to hide an involuntary smile, pretending to yawn.

The loud bang of the gong attracted everyone’s attention, arousing genuine interest from his random neighbors. Such a simple signal clearly heralded the beginning of their meeting, so putting on a serious expression on his face, John prepared to listen.

The speaker was an elderly Chinese woman. She more than compensated her small stature and delicate build with her voice and imperious manner of speaking. But her somewhat patronizing tone seemed to bother only him; even in the meager lighting here, he could clearly see the respect frozen in the faces around him. He had the impression that only he alone came unprepared, but was nevertheless allowed to pass without hindrance, though he was clearly quite different from the locals, and thus quite conspicuous.

“Living your lives day after day, what do you crave? What are you looking for? Money? Love? Acceptance? Fame?” Besides the fact that the elderly witch was delivering a well-prepared speech, John could only distinguish a faint accent from her, which was fairly expressive. She didn’t give the impression of a person who lived on their foggy island.

“... Asking why life is so hard? For what? Why?..”

John could barely keep his eyes opened; it wasn’t part of his plan to fall asleep, but neither the strong and sonorous voice of the orator, nor the harmonious mutterings of the people gathered around him helped to relieve his numbness and stupor. Even realizing that he should have listened carefully and memorized the spoken words, he still couldn’t help himself - he had already missed most of the speech.

A pleasant familiar scent had been floating around the room for some time, John, straining his memory, nevertheless remembered what it reminded him of - sandalwood. For those who came, sandalwood had been burning without stint, and from its tart scent mixed with incense, he almost immediately began to feel dizzy and had watery eyes.

It was hard to believe that even if it was such a strong smell, he would have such a reaction. And when he also began to feel a little nauseous, everything finally fell into place. John covered his nose with the lapel of his jacket and glanced back at the door. He should have expected something like this, knowing from Holmes and Lestrade what the Black Lotus really was, but he still wasn’t prepared. He didn’t tolerate various drugs, even the most lightest, and right now any filtration rune would help him but he didn’t dare to do anything at this moment.

“Are you seeking salvation? So you will find it. You have already found it.”

Magic rang and shimmered, enclosed in graceful ligatures of runes. Its mesmerizing ringing calmed and pacified, drowning out unpleasant symptoms from the drugs, so John couldn’t but to admire such resourcefulness. Even for Healers, such a technique was rare; to use it, it was necessary to possess considerable talent and skills. And lacking them, this was not available to him.

“We will not be able to free ourselves as long as we are bound by our humanity, and until we get rid of these shackles, we will not be able to break free.”

So far, everything said at this so-called meeting for those wishing to join didn’t go beyond the standard propaganda, though the last words were alarming. John endured with the last of his strength. All the same, he wouldn’t have been able to get up and leave, despite being in the last rows. He had checked specifically; at the entrance were two fellows of outstanding proportions and physique on duty. The guys were clearly bored and quietly talking about something, but it was still unrealistic to slip past them.

It was clear from the very beginning that everything was going according to a perfectly worked out scheme. The newcomers were gently hooked up to regular meetings. The drug giving a feeling of peace and mild euphoria, forcing them to come back again and again, until the new members of the sect finally became addicted to marijuana. As he strongly suspected, something then, heavier and much more effective was being used - tinctures and elixirs. The circle was closed, and those in it already had no strength, and most importantly, no desire to escape from it.

It was all sad. No doubt modern society had not only gave rise to, but in every possible way, contributed to the appearance of such organizations. But all this still didn’t bring them any closer to solving strange ritual murders. The only link so far were the black lotus flowers.


	20. Chapter 20

On the wall before him, with bright yellow streaks as if nothing had happened, settling down were familiar yellow signs, beckoning with a promise to reveal their unknown meanings. Increasingly he began to come across whole inscriptions instead of lonely symbols, once again confirming his theory that they were still some kind of message, of how to read, however, he still did not know.

“I didn’t think that you, too, could see these signs,” a quiet female voice murmured from somewhere to his right, startling him a little.

It was clearly not a question, but John nodded in agreement anyway. Lost in thought, he relaxed his vigilance and was therefore taken by surprise. At least now he knew for sure that he wasn’t the only one who saw all of these yellow inscriptions.More precisely now he knew for sure that only some mages and witches could see them, of which he, for some odd reason, could safely count himself amongst.

“I saw you at the meeting,” the same Asian woman, whom he had took note of at the meeting, caught up with him. “You certainly didn’t come there for salvation.”

“You too don’t look like a person who believes in all this religious nonsense.”

“And in this we are alike.”

They walked for some time in comfortable silence. John didn't even look around to make sure there was no tail behind them; as soon as he retired a couple of blocks, he no longer felt any gazes or greedy attention at himself. Although he still couldn’t avoid new acquaintances.

“John Watson, Healer,” he deliberately omitted the part where he also appeared to be the partner of the consulting Dark Mage Sherlock Holmes. Now wasn’t the time nor the place for that.

“Su Lin Yao, Artifactist (1).”

And that, was already quite the amusing, interesting, and, perhaps, not even an accidental coincidence. Recently, John had stopped believing altogether, in any accidents.

“What do you think of the speaker's speech?” It wasn't as not difficult for him to maintain a conversation, the topic suggested itself.

“My humanity is too dear to me to part with it so carelessly... Besides, I have my own God. And you?”

John, just for a moment, but thought about the answer. If he truly surmised, then there was, in his life, someone who demanded not only constant worship, but also sacrifices in the form of his time and skills, however, that didn’t mean that he was ready to admit that openly.

“Hardly,” the evasive answer was still more honest than denial.

From the outside, they could be mistaken for acquaintances deciding to take a walk, it meant that neither they nor their behavior aroused any suspicion.

“In a couple of houses up from here there will be a cozy cafe, if you have some time, maybe we can stop by?”

He was clearly not being flirted with; he hadn’t lost his knack so much as to not determine when someone was interested in him in a romantic way. The only exception in his life was Sherlock Holmes. From the very beginning of their unexpected acquaintance and partnership, he couldn’t determine what Sherlock really felt for him.

Sometimes, it seemed to him that they were more than just partners, and gradually, became something more than just friends. He could swear by anything that Holmes was frankly interested in him. On the other hand, it could only be a figment of his vivid imagination. The social skills of the Dark Mage, though they had a place to be, were still strongly atrophied due to rare use, so Sherlock couldn’t separate his behavior from the common or romantic aspects of relationships. Furthermore, during all the time that they lived together, John had never witnessed that Sherlock was interested in someone else other than as an object of research, experiment, or the Work. He could have called himself the only exception, again bringing him back to where he began in his reflections.

Consequently, upon hearing an unveiled invitation, John agreed without hesitation. His curiosity once again prevailed over sanity. Besides, Su Lin Yao didn’t arouse any undue suspicion in him. Moreover, he had immediately checked her aura as soon as she spoke to him. To his amazement, she hid it as skillfully as Sherlock, arousing involuntary respect from him. This skill required either a special artifact or a lot of potential, though John was more inclinted to the former. Yet, as an Artifactist, the witch walking next to him could afford to have the necessary artifact at hand. But why she needed it was a completely different matter.

Of course he was still far from applying Sherlock’s deductive method as effectively as his partner, but he still knew some things. Without the ability to read someone else’s aura, he could have gone the other way. What he learned from Holmes in the first place was what clothes, shoes, amulets, and charms could tell the most about a person. Therefore it was to these things that he now paid his closest attention to.

Chance allowed him to meet a pleasant young witch who emigrated, according to his estimates, no more than five years ago. She had a stable and well-paid job, meaning that she was a highly qualified specialist in her field. She was also not quite human. He lost his step, but immediately pulled himself together. He might be wrong, but the more he looked, the more he noticed details that were insignificant at first glance, speaking in favor to his unexpected conclusion.

Now, he understood her strange at first glance words about humanity. He had never encountered half-demons before. Because of cultural differences and the mentality in Asia, half-breeds were much more common; there no one considered it reprehensible to have a relationship with a tengu or a kitsune. Harmonious coexistence with nature, spirits, and deities in Eastern culture often plunged Europeans into trembling horror, affecting the attitudes towards such mixed marriages, and, of course, the children born from such unions. No matter that they lived in the twenty-first century, prejudices against half-demons were as prevalent and strong as prejudices about skin color or sexual orientation.

The cafe was quite lively, but among other things, didn’t prevent them from placing their order and taking seats at the counter in the corner. They attracted less attention, and their quiet conversation was drowned out in the reigning general hubbub.

“You glow so brightly, John. Why don't you hide your aura? This can be dangerous for people like us.”

The strange words again puzzled him, though he tried not to show it; he wasn’t a half-demon. Most likey, the signs could be seen by any magical creatures, half-bloods, or those such as he - who traveled beyond the line and returned with altered magic.

“I am not doing this on purpose.” Here, he didn’t even twist his heart, but nevertheless hurried to transfer the conversation to another and more burning topic. “Those yellow marks? Do you know what they mean?”

“I can read them. I can teach you if you like, although it will take some time. This is hanzi (2).”

“I’m pretty tired that I bump into them everywhere, and I can’t understand… But I don’t think I will have time to learn a new language. By the way, isn’t it easier to write a letter or send a message? Why such difficulties?”

“And now we come to why I decided to speak to you. Do you know what the Black Lotus really is?”

“I know.” There was no point in denying it, besides, John felt that he was about to learn something very important. Carried away by the conversation, he and Su Lin moved very close to each other, so that their heads almost touched.

“These signs can only be seen by special people. As for the meaning, these are all messages that smugglers leave to each other. They also designate safe meeting places, times and the like. And now, there are still reports that a certain Spider is looking for a missing and very rare artifact.”

Looking at the golden flashes in the other's hazel eyes, John already guessed what Artifactist Su Lin Yao was going to ask him. There was only one thing left to clarify.

“What is this artifact?”

“One of the parts of the Sphere of Harmony (3). This is indeed a rare artifact, considered to be long lost. You have no idea what it would mean for the scientific world to find it!”

(1) Artifactist is a mage whose specialty is directly related to artifacts: their creation, research, evaluation, finding, restoration, etc.

(2) Chinese writing is a thousand-year hieroglyphic or ideographic recording system that originated in China. It differs from the alphabetical one in that each sign is assigned some meaning (not only phonetic), and the number of signs is large;

(3) The Orb of Harmony is an ancient artifact that allows you to harmonize the flow of magic and direct and apply transformed magic to perform a ritual of absolutely any complexity. The potential for such transformed magic is enormous. Consists of three parts; presumably looks like a medium-sized box with a lock and key.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally new chap))) sorry for delay!  
> Soon we will finish this part, there will be sidestory form Sherlock' POV and waiting for part 3 as I still writing it..eahhh
> 
> Enjoy!)

The silence in their living room was rarely comfortable. Usually it was disturbed by some suspiciously gurgling experiment, a skull chattering about everything or a bored dark mage. Even John himself did his part every now and then by turning on the TV or listening to music on his laptop or phone. In their living room one could constantly hear the rustling of the pages of books or newspapers, or the slight crackling of magic charges in the fireplace, where Sherlock again sent them out of boredom. Clients came to them quite often, which, amidst other things, seldom meant that they stayed for more than a couple of minutes. Mrs. Hudson dropped by often to just chat, or tidy up a bit, or bring some fresh baked goods.

After sharing his impressions of attending the newcomers’ meeting and meeting Su Lin Yao with Sherlock, he did not expect his story to be the result of the unusual cozy lull in Baker Street.

It was quite amusing to watch Holmes quietly laying down on the couch. He didn’t think that it was convenient for him to lie in his suits and boots, but he was in no hurry to intervene, only moving closer with his laptop, in case the dark mage wanted suddenly to speak out. It practically became a kind of ritual for them, John acting as an attentive listener for Holmes, replacing the skull for that. He no longer even took offense at being compared to a chatty magical object, and after thinking about it for a while, he even came to the conclusion that it was a huge progress in their relationship. Because now Holmes, acting not only as an orator, but also as a teacher, forcing John to apply his deductive method and voice his thoughts and conclusions.

Now, while Sherlock was immersed in thought, he had time to do his daily business. Prepared to wait patiently, John went to his favorite dreaming forum. Over the past few nights, strange, disturbing dreams began to trouble him, the content of which he could only vaguely recall upon awakening. This puzzled him in earnest. Having mastered several simple techniques of lucid dreaming and diligently keeping a dream diary, he even got used to some extent, to remember and then write down everything he saw in a dream. Now, after awakening, he had only a few vague images and a restless premonition somewhere in the solar plexus. Perhaps, in the near future, he should use the leaflet with the advertisement for the courses he found between the pages of a textbook bought at a sale. And to also go look at the courses themselves, and the Temple where they were held. He had specially checked and wrote out the address in advance so he could go there on occasion.

“Moriarty is clearly involved here.” 

John was just typing his impressions of his "pillow" technique (1) when Sherlock's voice distracted him from posting a reply, after which he hurriedly excused himself and left the chat.

“I want to hear your thoughts.”

John slammed the laptop shut and turned his full attention to Sherlock. In someone else's request, he stubbornly heard the desire not to listen to his conclusions, but Holmes' desire to just listen to his voice. And it was not the first time that he caught himself on such thoughts, which meant that his inner conviction, most likely, did not deceive him.

“The smuggling of rare artifacts is a lucrative business,” started John, taking out a notebook he usually took notes in during cases, almost never parting with it. Scrolling to the desired page, he quickly scanned over the entries.

“Wang Kun and Brian Lucas were couriers, who, under the guise of bringing souvenirs home, smuggled parts or materials for future artifacts into the country. Both returned to London on the same day, a few hours apart, and brought in another shipment for sale. But one of them turned out to be not so clean on hand, and stole a supposedly integral part of the artifact The Sphere of Harmony. I specifically inquired about it, and it’s not known for certain just what it is. There are suggestions that it is a Box, a Lock, and a Key. But those are just assumptions, in fact, their appearance, except for the Box itself, is unknown.” 

“Who stole the Key, did it meaninglessly, considering it a simple trinket.” Holmes picked up his thought, perking up a little and even taking a sitting position. “Otherwise, hardly any of them would have consciously dared to do this, knowing the scope and seriousness of such an offense to the syndicate. Our killer not only killed them demonstratively, but also left the mark of “Black Lotus.” After that, according to your new friend, he began to look for the artifact among his own smugglers, in the hope that it would surface somewhere.”

“The way he so easily entered the apartments, arranging rituals like suicide, and then, just as easily, without leaving a trace, disappeared. Already it speaks in favor of the theory that he is not quite human. And the words of your Witch-Artifactist about the messages in the form of Hanzi finally confirmed this. And why you can see them is another question, the answer to which we will undoubtedly receive when we solve this case.”

John only had to agree with everything that was said, he still didn’t have any sensible ideas. Moreover, now he was worried about another equally important question.

“Do you think part of the artifact can be replaced? I read that this is possible in some cases.”

“It’s really quite possible. Why do you think they also needed to create a sect, even calling it that way?” It was a rhetorical question, so he didn’t even try to answer, just getting ready to listen to Holmes’ theory on this matter. He had a couple of ideas, but Sherlock was almost never wrong, and John tended to trust his opinion more than his own in such matters.

“I am sure, under the guise of a sect, the “Black Lotus” is not only busy distributing drugs, but also collecting the life force of its parishioners. Theoretically, one of the parts of the artifact, and we are not only talking about The Sphere of Harmony, can be replaced with concentrated energy of equal potential. True, in this case, the results may be unpredictable, and many factors must be taken into account. The conclusion is very simple. A sect is a kind of insurance, as well as a way to declare yourself and at the same time, avert your eyes from your main activity. While the authorities and the Ministry are busy dispersing this pseudo-cult, a trade in rare artifacts is going on right under their noses.”

As soon as Sherlock mentioned the Ministry and the government in one sentence, he involuntarily immediately remembered Mycroft Holmes. After the memorable tea party, he was no longer present. Apart from the rare notes that Mrs. Hudson periodically passed on to John, the Necromancer didn’t interfere in their lives. Usually, in these short messages, something related to their life was reported, and such a form of care for him personally, even moved John a little. He suspected that Sherlock knew about this one-sided correspondence, but didn’t mind.

“Now imagine, with the help of The Sphere of Harmony, a certain artifact should be created, but it itself is incomplete and its part is replaced. Firstly, this is a big risk, and secondly, the customer, by definition, cannot be an ordinary mage. The only one who fits in all the parameters is my brother and Moriarty. For obvious reasons, I ruled out Mycroft.”

While he spoke, John managed to go to the kitchen and make some tea. He was a little amused at the thought of Mycroft as a potential suspect. Though if he thought so, it wasn’t worth having some fun, being of more worth to be scared. But again, in this he trusted Sherlock’s opinion more than his own, so he didn’t worry in vain. He was much more worried about this mysterious Moriarty, whose potential Sherlock equated with the potential of his brother, whom he, though refusing to openly admit, respected and highly valued.

(1) "Pillow" technique - as the name suggests, a lucid dreaming technique based on different shapes, sizes and number of sleep pillows, with which you can learn to control sleep phases, the degree of sleep immersion, and more.


End file.
